The Lady Vanishes
by EloiseTwo
Summary: Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing.
1. Default Chapter

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

"Come again?" Danny Taylor pressed the cell phone to his ear, hoping he has heard his boss wrong.

"Harriett Stevens-Newberg," Jack Malone's voice came as a shout into Danny's ear. "Otherwise known as Hatty the Great."

Danny sighed the sigh of the weary. He was at the airport. Actually at the airport. No, they weren't boarding his flight yet, but surely, once in the waiting area, one could be considered as officially on vacation. And Danny needed - no, deserved - this vacation!

He has been planning this for months. He actually had dreams about the sea, the sandy beaches, a little hut under a palm tree, and a girl with dark eyes and mocha-colored skin serving him fruity, non-alcoholic drinks with colorful umbrellas in them!

And yet, here was Jack on the phone, pulling him back into the gray New York January, just when Danny settled comfortably in the waiting area, with his eyes closed in order to ignore the airport hassle and the unpleasant idea of flying, and his mind skipping ahead to the much happier prospect of landing at the Nassau.

And why, one might ask? Because some society matron with a ridiculous name had gone and managed to disappear overnight?

"Jack," Danny tried, hoping against hope, "why is that us? For all we know the old biddy just changed her plans and went to stay at some other one of her numerous properties." According to what Jack already mentioned, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg supposedly left the Upper East Side brownstone early last evening, and never arrived at the East Hamptons estate where she intended to go.

"It's us because she is elderly. It's us because, according to the people I spoke to so far, she never changes her plans once she announces them. And, mainly, it's us because she is an FOG. It's all hands on deck, Danny. I'm sorry."

Danny felt resignation settle in. FOG, as any agent with experience would tell you, stood for Friend of Governor. Which meant automatic priority. Which meant Danny should forget about the sandy beaches and the be-umbrella-ed drinks for at least a while.

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The house was impressive, as those Upper East Side semidetached mentions inevitably are. It screamed _old money_. That is, it was deliberately and painstakingly understated. The entrance was unadorned, and one had to look closely to see that the steps were marble of the highest quality, and the door knob - a real antique polished brass - at least several centuries old. In this day and age of nuevo rich buying off chunks of Manhattan, the old guard stood firmly on the "quietly filthy rich" ground, brandishing plainness as a weapon of taste.

Danny pressed the door bell, half expecting a butler in white gloves to open it and demand a visiting card of some sort. It was opened instead by a typical teenager. She was about 14, of a nondescript appearance common to girls that age, when they only begin to form into women they will some day become. She had on a pair of jeans and a long, loose sweater. Her sandy hair was pulled back and held with a clip, and her face wore an expression of tremendous excitement mingled with worry.

"Hi. You're FBI? Cool! There are more of you in the Breakfast room." She was rocking on her heels, looking Danny up and down with an undisguised intent of appraisal. "Interesting," was the result of her observation. "Do they pick you guys by looks? 'Cause the other two in the Breakfast room are also pretty."

Danny, taken aback, was rather lost for words, but, thankfully, the girl didn't really expect an answer. She grabbed Danny's sleeve and led him down a semi-darkened hall, talking nonstop all the while.

"What's your name? I'm Allie. That is, the real name is Allegra. Allegra Stevens-Newberg. Can you believe it? Our people are nuts! I mean, like, all of them! They give children names that they wouldn't give a house pet, and then they wonder why the kids grow up all weird! I don't even tell people I'm Allegra! Well, I told you, but that doesn't count: you are FBI, you're bound to find out all the same. But I'd _die _if someone actually called me that! . . . My sister's Blake. That's even worse. It's a non-gender name. Not even a real name at all: it was mom's maiden name. She was a Blake. Camilla Blake of the Connecticut Blakes. Ever heard of them? No? Good for you! Hearing my mother talk, you'd think they were world-famous or something! . . . Breakfast room! We call it Breakfast room, but, really, no one ever has breakfast in it. Or any other meals. When grammy lived here, it was just a room. But now it's Breakfast room! With a capital _B_. It's just mom being pretentious. Because Muffle has a breakfast room, mom has to have one, also. That's Muffle Livingston. She is dad's business partner's wife, and she and mom compete, like, in everything. . . . Here's a name for you! Muffle! Although, I think it's not her real name. It's something dreadful, like Agness or Pamela! I forget which. But everyone calls her Muffle. Don't ask me why."

"I won't," said Danny, and walked into the room ahead of the girl, thus preventing her from continuing the nonstop verbal stream. She took a hint, but didn't leave the room. Instead she settled in an armchair, with her legs crossed and her hands firmly gripping the armrests - a position that clearly indicated that wild horses wouldn't be able to drag her away from all the action.

Martin Fitzgerald and Samantha Spade, the two agents mentioned by Allie, were holding a quiet conference by the large window overlooking the inner garden.

"Danny," Martin turned to him. "Sorry you got dragged back in. I hear you almost made it."

"Yep. How pissed am I!" He took a careful look around the room. It had the same quietly imposing quality to it as the outside of the house and the entrance hall. "I thought it was 'all hands on deck'? Where are Jack and Viv?"

Sam smiled: "Talking to the lady of the house. And we are extremely grateful for that! She descended on us like a Fury when we showed up. Apparently, we are _imposing_. Or _interrupting_. Or was it _intruding_? It was something bad that started with an 'i'."

"That's mom for you," observed Allie from her chair. "If you are not the family or the help, you were put on this Earth to hinder her in one way or another."

Danny chuckled and for the first time looked at the girl with interest.

"If your mother doesn't want us here, who called this in?"

"Oh, I did," Allie informed them with pride. Apparently the statement was a surprise for Martin and Sam, as well. All three agents turned to the girl now.

"I called Uncle George. He is the governor, you know. He is not really my uncle, but we know him. That is, dad plays golf with him and he was here several times. And he knew grandpa."

"That explains it," murmured Danny under his breath.

"Sure does," Sam took a seat in an armchair next to the girl's. "Allie, why did you call? Why didn't any of the adults call?"

"Because, mom said that grammy was just being difficult and that she'd gone to Boston or something. Grammy's done that before, you know. Left for a while without telling where. Like years ago. Maybe five or six years. But I don't think she did this time. Mom says she did. That Frank drove her home to pack."

"But you don't think so?" Danny asked with interest.

"I don't. For starters, Blake's wedding's like next weekend! Why would grammy go to Boston so close to that? And this total bull that she was going to the Hamptons first! The Hamptons are crazy right now. All that wedding prep has grammy wigging out. I heard her say herself that she hated it there these days, because 'it was all shrouded in tulle and smothered with tulips!' Grammy has a gift for the funny."

"Wait a minute, Allie," Samantha looked at the girl intently, "your sister is getting married next weekend, and the wedding is at the Hamptons? At the house where your grandmother said she was going to?"

"Yep. Can you believe it? They are building a gigantic tent. Heated one! Grammy would never! She hates the hassle. She thinks mother's bonkers. I mean, even more than usual. All this commotion. . . . Grammy was a no-nonsense bride! She told me all about it once. Her Society wedding was just forty people at a registry office and a nice wedding breakfast at the Plaza. Forty relatives and friends, and about half a dozen photographers, but only from the most respectable publications."

Allie raised an index finger to emphasize the point. The gesture and the tone rang incongruous from a child. All 3 agents bit their lips trying not to smile.

Sam conquered her amusement first: "Allie, I still don't understand. Why did you make the call and not, say, your father?"

"Dad's in Paris. Business, he says. Too much wedding prep here, I say. He's flying back now, though. Uncle George talked to him. He was supposed to come back Thursday, anyway, but now he'd be here sooner. . . ."

Martin cut in: "Wait, so, you didn't think your mother was concerned enough, and your father was away, and, therefore, you decided to head straight for the Governor?"

Allie huffed at the incredulity in Martin's voice: "Of course not! I called Grammy's first. She wasn't answering. She has a place on Park Avenue. I asked mom to check, but she told me that Grammy can take care of herself. Like I don't know that! . . . It was just that she and mom really got into it earlier yesterday. I mean, I could hear them shout all the way from my room! And then the doors were slamming for, like, forever. But I didn't bother them until this morning. And then mom told me Grammy went to Hamptons. And I thought: this is bad, she hates it there, she must have been so upset with mom that she went to the Hamptons anyway. So, I called her there, right? And they tell me she hasn't shown. So, I'm thinking: she thought better of it and stayed home. I call her and no one is picking up! And Frank is nowhere to be found, either. I even paged him, and nothing! And I don't know where he lives. I ask mom again, and she says: may be grammy drove herself and gave Frank a day off. Which I know is bull, because her eyes are bad, but she won't admit it. That's why we have Frank. He is technically dad's chaufer, but dad uses company car, and Frank just drives grammy."

Danny came up to Allie's chair and put a calming hand on her shoulder: "Slow down a bit. Let's see if we got the sequence of events correctly: your mother and grandmother had a fight yesterday evening, after which your grandmother announced to your mother that she was leaving for the Hamptons."

"Right. And then Frank was supposed to drive grammy to her place to pack. I didn't see any of it. That's just what mom told me."

"OK," Sam picked up the thread. "So, this morning you called your grandmother at both the Hamptons and the city numbers, and didn't get a response. Is that unusual?"

"You bet. Grammy _always _answers my calls. Actually, she answers everybody's calls. She says it's impolite to refuse to talk to people, even if they are being pests. She is really well brought up." Allie wrapped her arms around her small frame, suddenly looking lost and younger than her 14 years.

"It's all right, Allie," Sam smiled at the girl reassuringly. "So, next you called your father?"

"No. I went to grammy's place on Park Avenue. The doorman knows me, he let me in. I mean, grammy could have been, like, really sick or something, and couldn't call for help! We went upstairs and we looked, and she wasn't there. And you know what else? She didn't even pack! So much for going to the Hamptons. And Truman was sleeping on his pillow."

"I'm sorry, _Truman_?"

"Grammy's Yorkie. She goes nowhere without that dog! What was I supposed to do? Mom and Blake wave me off like I'm some hysterical baby. I called dad and he talked to mom, and, _of course_, she got around him like she always does. And then he called me back and talked in that patronizing voice he reserves especially for me and Hank. . . . It's been like that all morning. So, by lunch, when I didn't hear from grammy, I called uncle George. . . . I didn't know what else to do."

Martin, Sam, and Danny exchanged looks, marvelling at the line of thinking that went straight from mom and dad to the Governor of the State. "And what did uncle George say?"

"He promised to check it out. He talked to me like I was a real person, not some crazy kid. But he didn't call back for, like, hours. And I didn't want to disturb him, either, 'cause he's got things to do. But he didn't forget, because the next thing I know, here you guys are!"

"Yes, here we _are_," Danny smiled at the girl with a polite but restrained smile. "Allie, would you excuse us for a moment?"

The girl looked from one agent to the other, realizing she was being dismissed from the room. She shrugged and got up from her chair. She turned around as she approached the door:

"Spoil sport," was her parting shot at Danny.

Danny sunk into the chair that Allie vacated a moment ago: "So, guys, let me get this straight: mommy and grammy have a spat, grammy leaves in a huff, no one is apparently alarmed except for a hyper kid, and . . . what are we doing here exactly?"

Martin smiled: "Well, to be fair, we don't know where the old lady is. She didn't show up at her Hamptons estate, for starters."

"Yeah, the _estate_," Danny put as much scorn as he could into that word. "Not for nothing - and not just because I am mourning my vacation - but did they look in _all _1,500 bedrooms of that place?"

Sam chuckled: "It's only 8 bedrooms, actually, and yes, they did. Including the two-storey guest house. Apparently the Governor called the local PD after Allie contacted him, more to appease the child than anything. The locals found all manner of activity in full swing - must be those contentious wedding preparations. The carpenters, the architects, the landscapers, the who-knows-whos, but no grandma. That's when the Governor got worried and called us."

"I see," Danny sighed. "I guess I should apologize to the kid."

"Yes you should!" They turned around swiftly to find Allie standing framed by the door, her hands on her hips in a warrior-like position. "And I am _not _hyper!"

"Allie, didn't anyone tell you that you shouldn't listen at the door?"

"Don't patronize me, I get enough of that from mom, dad, and Blake!" She marched right back into the room and planted herself firmly right in front of the chair currently occupied by Danny.

"Fair enough," he straightened out in the armchair, his tone now serious and not unkind, "but you have to allow for the possibility that your grandmother simply doesn't want to talk to or see anyone, and has just gone to be by herself for a while in some safe place or other."

Allie thought it over. "You know what? I'd be glad to consider this possibility. I'd be happy to be wrong here. I just couldn't allow for the other possibility: that she is hurt, or sick, or in danger somewhere, and none of us did a thing."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**Thank you, everyone, who responded with reviews. As always, I appreciate them more thank I can say! **

**Anmodo: regarding Audrey: first and foremost, I am not giving her up. LOL. As Larry Gelbart would have said, "she moved into my head, and has been happily redecorating ever since." I will absolutely revisit the character and Danny/Audrey relationship in my next story. But I have deliberately set this one in January, a whole month before their meeting. For the purposes of this fic, I wanted to keep Danny's outlook toward marriage and relationships in general somewhat jaded and skeptical.**

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"Ma'am, would please just answer my question?" Jack Malone felt his voice crack a little - a definite sign that his patience, lately so short under the best of conditions, was about to desert him altogether. He, better than most people, realized the need for diplomacy here, but any such virtuous thought went out the window the moment this impossible woman led him and Vivian into the stately room.

"This is utterly ridiculous! I am telephoning George right now! I am under tremendous stress here: my daughter's nuptials are only six days away! I cannot possibly waste any more time on this insanity!"

It was amazing how shrill such a well-modulated voice could get. In fact, everything about Camilla Stevens-Newberg seemed shrill this morning. Her bobbed hair - well-groomed to a degree almost impossible to maintain anywhere outside of an immediate vicinity of a salon - was feathering around her face in tiny, pin-like spikes. Her nail polish, though translucent and colorless, had a shiny, blinding quality. Her sweater was high-octane red. The complete effect was that of someone who uses impeccable as a weapon.

For some reason it annoyed Jack more than the woman's voice and her stubborn refusal to cooperate or even understand the nature of their mission.

"Ma'am, I get that you don't believe your mother-in-law is missing or in any particular danger. I also get that the time is of the essence in your preparations for your daughter's upcoming nuptials," Jack deliberately used the woman's own language, half mocking/half humoring her, "but, please, understand, that we have a job to do as well, and that the sooner you answer our _very _few questions, the sooner we will be out of your hair, so to speak."

"But I already told you: I don't know anything," she addressed Jack in that subtle tone a kindergarten teacher would use with a particularly slow and unmanageable child.

Jack rubbed his tired eyes, mentally cursing the woman, her missing mother-in-law, the esteemed Governor, the entire New York City Upper Register, and - while at it - the very day it possessed him to join the Bureau.

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg. . . ."

"Oh, please, call me Coco," she finally gave in, waving her hand in general direction of a couch, letting Jack and Vivian know that the audience was granted, if only for a short time.

"I shudder when people call me Mrs. Stevens-Newberg in social situations." The lady of the house took her place on an ottoman next to the couch: legs crossed, unsupported back perfectly straight, and the shoulders relaxed. "That's what they address Harriett as. She is the reigning Mrs. Stevens-Newberg. The family and close friends call her Hattie, of course. She insists on that, though I never _could _use that silly moniker. _Really_, the woman is 70, and she is practically a New York institution, and yet, she is being called _Hattie_! That is _such _an undignified, ridiculous nickname, don't you think? . . . Anyway, call me Coco."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not." Jack bit his lower lip. The exhaustion, spilling over from the previous case wrapped up only yesterday, and the sleepless night that followed, were catching up with him. He found it harder and harder to control himself.

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg," Vivian chimed in, coming to his rescue. "I am Special Agent Johnson," she answered the lady's questioning glance - the first direct acknowledgment of Vivian's presence by Camilla. "What my colleague and I would like you to do is to walk us through yesterday evening. From the moment your mother-in-law came over to the moment she left the house."

"What do you mean?"

"She means," sighed Jack, "when did your mother-in-law arrive, was that a scheduled visit, what did you talk about, when did she leave, how did she leave, and where did she say she was going exactly?"

Camilla looked from one to the other with undisguised annoyance.

"For goodness sake, is that really necessary? . . . She stopped by. She does every now and then. We talked about the wedding. Blake was there, she can tell you more. I don't remember the exact conversation. I am a bit preoccupied right now. You have _no _idea what it takes to pull off a decent wedding these days! I don't remember it being this difficult when I was getting married. And my friend Muffle says that it was an absolute breeze when she was getting ready for Tinsley's nuptials last Fall. Then again, Muffle, between you and I, can not be trusted in such matters. Tinsley's wedding was a perfect testament to _that_! Can you believe it: they had gondolas on the East River! How _gauche _can one get? And wouldn't you know it? It was raining all the time. But what would you expect? Muffle is positively clueless. _I _can never allow myself to be this lax and blasé about it all! I am overseeing _everything_! I find that old adage to be true: if one wants a thing done right, one should do it oneself. Don't you agree?"

"Actually, I think if one wants a thing done right, one should hire a professional. But that's besides the point. Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, what happened after you and your daughter had this conversation with your mother-in-law?"

"What do you mean?" That look was back again. The same pained, semi-perplexed look that seemed to imply that Jack and Vivian were idiot children who wouldn't go to bed when ordered to.

Jack felt the headache - the one that started this morning right after Olczyk informed him of the phone call from the Governor - mushroom into a full-blown, visceral pain.

"I mean, did she leave right away? Did she inform you of her intentions to go to the Hamptons herself, or did you just assume that that's where she was headed?"

"Oh, who remembers such things! I think she said she was going, but I could be mistaken. In fact, I think it was Boston she intended to go to all along! Yes, that's right, I positively think it was Boston. Or was it Aspen?"

_I could have done something meaningful with my life. I could have been a psychologist. I could have stayed in the Army. A job as an accountant for the IRS looks pretty good right now_. Jack knew that such thoughts were fleeting and induced by the need to suppress his very real desire to hit the woman in front of him with something blunt and hefty.

Vivian, fielding the waves of tension coming off of Jack, interceded again - her calm undisturbed and her voice only hinting at sarcasm: "So, what you are saying is that after a lengthy discussion about the family wedding that is to take place next weekend, your mother-in-law had announced that she was leaving the State? For how long?"

The lady shrugged. "I don't know. I don't particularly recall her announcing anything. I believe she said something about going to pack."

Jack looked around the room furtively. He wandered where the nearest bathroom was and how fast he could get there so he can have some water to chase an industrial-sized pain killer.

Camilla, oblivious to the agents' frustration, glanced pointedly at her watch: "Look, agent Jackson. . . ."

"It's Johnson."

"Of course it is. Agent Johnson, agent McComb, I am _very_, _very _ busy right now, and, as you can see, not very good with insignificant details. Why don't you talk to Blake? She was there, she has a _much _better memory, and she would be able to spare you a few minutes before she has to leave for her fitting."

Camilla got up, effectively ending the conversation. Jack and Viv also rose, as Jack, breathing a sigh of relief, asked: "That seems like a good idea, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg. Now, where can we find your daughter?"

"She is in the Blue Hall, I believe, going over the seating charts. I will show you."

The insufferable woman left the room without a backward glance, assuming that the agents would naturally follow her like the little children she treated them as.

Jack turned to Vivian with a mischievous smile: "Coming, agent Jackson?"

"After you, agent McComb," Vivian chuckled back without missing a beat.

xxxxxxx

Blake Stevens-Newberg was a superficially pretty girl of 22, as impeccably groomed as her mother, but in a far less militant way.

"Is this going to take long?" She cleared the space on a satin sofa for the agents to sit. The Blue Hall was littered with swatches, sample books, seating charts, and other paraphernalia of a complicated wedding planning. Vivian briefly pondered the very close resemblance of all this to the battle plans of a great military conflict.

"No, it shouldn't take much time. Provided you can give us direct answers." Jack sat on the edge of the sofa.

"But of course. I mean, I know you're just doing your job. Mother sometimes is too much. I'll be happy to answer all your questions. Just keep in mind that I have a fitting at 2:00, and then I have to supervise the boys."

"The boys?" Jack asked, immediately regretting the question, as Blake's eyes lit up with animosity.

"Yes! We are going to have eight little boys - all relatives, of course - dressed as grooms in riding breeches and jackets!"

"I'm sorry, I still don't. . . ."

"They are going to carry my train after the ceremony! Isn't it adorable? Tinsley had six little boys dressed like gondoliers. That's where mother got the idea. I thought six would have been enough - I mean, six costumes to make and fit is nightmare enough - but mother pointed out that, since Tinsley had six, we should have eight. Don't you think the whole riding theme is the best? First we thought: Winter Wonderland. I was to be drawn in a sled with white horses. And everything was to be decorated with white lights. But, wouldn't you know it: very little snow this year. So mother came up with this riding theme instead. Brilliant!"

Jack felt like crying, but he had to ask:

"Weddings have to have themes now? I thought the theme was, you know, _wedding_!"

Blake looked at him as if he asked her what year it was: "_Of course_ there are themes! How would you tell them apart otherwise?"

"May be, by different brides and grooms?" Mumbled Vivian under her breath, but so quietly only Jack heard her.

"I truly believe mine is the most original," Blake continued enthusiastically. "Tinsley's was a Venetian Carnival, but, I mean, _the East River_? P-a-a-l-e-a-s-e! It smelled! And then one of her little boys fell in, and someone had to dive after him, because he was five and couldn't swim!"

"Who's Tinsley?" Jack felt the conversation getting away from him entirely, but he saw that there was no way of getting it on track until the girl had spilled her excitement.

"Tinsley Livingston. Muffle and Jerome Livingston't daughter. Mr. Livingston is dad's business partner. You know, the brokerage firm? Coldwell Stevens-Newberg Livingston Prime. Except Coldwells are out, the last one died ages ago. . . . Anyway, she is Tinsley Colton now. And don't you believe a word in that 'Vows Story' in _The New York Times_ Society Page! That was a total snow job. 'The bride and groom met at a charity auction?' _Sure _they did! Greg was engaged to Millie, and Tinsley simply pinched him during Millie's birthday party two years ago. But, of course, they won't put _that _in _The New York Times_. Can you _imagine_?"

"Vividly," said Jack, his voice cracking, pain throbbing in his temples now.

"Anyway, I have eight little grooms and I am going to be riding down the isle on a horse! Dad will be leading it. You should see my dress! It's modeled after a riding habit, and I will have a white satin top hat with the veil attached!"

Jack felt that he had enough. That was it, that was as much as he could humanly take.

"Miss Stevens-Newberg. . . ."

"Please, Blake! I am so glad to shed Stevens-Newberg, you have no idea! Double names are so passé. I am going to be Lindval. Blake Lindval. Mrs. James Lindval. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Enchanting. Now, Blake, would you be so kind as to answer our questions, so you don't - _God forbid_ - miss your fitting!"


	3. Chapter 3

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**I would like to say again how grateful I am to everyone who responded: I wouldn't be able to do this without you guys! **

**Mariel3: This is possibly the funniest review I ever got. Made my day! **

**SpyMaster: As always, I try to stay within canon, so, yes, there are JS undertones, because I perceive them to be implied on the show. There are unresolved feelings and unspoken things, and I just go with them. :)**

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Sam appeared at the doorway, relief written on her face. Jack's eyes drifted toward her, as they inevitably did everywhere.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Sam addressed herself to Blake first, "I just need a word with Agent Malone."

She didn't move from the door and Jack got up to meet her there.

"The Blue Hall, I presume?" She tilted her head, smiling. "I got lost looking for you guys. This house should come with a map and a compass."

"It should come with a translator and a rabies shot, but I'm digressing," Jack smiled back, "what've you got?"

"We've talked to the youngest daughter. That is, she talked and we mostly listened. Bright kid, even if she is a little too verbal. Anyway, according to Allie, early yesterday evening Mrs. Stevens-Newberg and her mother-in-law had a shouting match that reverberated through the entire house and lasted for some time. Also according to Allie, it was unusual, because the elder Mrs. Stevens-Newberg rarely loses her cool and almost never shouts. The banging of the doors ensued, and that's the last that was heard of the grandma, at least in here."

Jack sighed. "Damn, I was hoping that this place would be a dead end we can walk away from as soon as possible. Now we have to re-interview the Mrs., and I was so looking forward to never seeing her again. . . ." Jack rubbed his eyes again and asked with a smile of tired resignation: "You have a firearm on you, right?"

Sam looked up in surprise.

"Always. Why? You think something here is likely to escalate to a gunfight?"

"No, I just might need somebody to shoot me very soon."

Sam smiled back, and touched his shoulder lightly. "Now, now, where's that legendary, owl-like detachment we've all grown to love and depend upon?"

"It deserted me somewhere between the East River gondolas and the eight little grooms."

"What?" Sam laughed in surprise.

"Never mind, I just want to be put out of my misery."

She shook her head: "I'd rather shoot Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, if it comes to that."

"I feel incredibly tempted to authorize this measure, but then I have to remind myself how much it will _not _be worth the trouble. . . . Viv and I have to finish up with the bride here, now that we have something definite to ask her. Thanks." He held on to Sam's hand just a second longer than necessary, his fatigue robbing him of customary control.

"Why don't you find the mother and talk to her. Take Martin and Danny with you. You'd need all the help you can get with that one. And don't let her blow you off. When we questioned her, she plead general amnesia of "insignificant details" - her words - but she can hardly claim to forget a shouting match that's only a day old."

Jack watched her walk away and down the staircase, returning to the Blue Hall somewhat reluctantly. His headache was now an entity of its own: alive, throbbing, and here to stay. He sank back into the chair, catching a frustrated glance from Vivian and deducing that she was treated to yet more wedding details while he talked to Sam.

"I'm sorry for the interruption." He smiled as genially as possible. "Now, could you please tell me what the fight between your mother and your grandmother was about?"

Blake looked taken aback: "Who told you?"

"It doesn't matter. Apparently, it was loud enough for everyone to hear."

"Oh, _everyone_! Everyone usually means Allie. That little minx's got ears like a bat. . . . Look, it was nothing. They disagreed about the arrangements. They often do, disagree." Blake fidgeted with the tussles of a sofa cushion, her eyes downcast. Jack got the impression that she was lying, or at least not telling them something, but he had nothing specific to confront her with.

She raised her head, her cheeks slightly pink, whether from being angry or ashamed, he couldn't tell.

"Look, grammy is an amazing character. Really, she is. She never complains, for one. I know what you think: what could a billionaire's widow possibly have to complain about? You'd be surprised! She lived through a lot. The company wasn't doing so well in the 50s, and grandpa had to spend most of his time at the office for years and years. And just when things started to go extremely well, he got sick. She took him to every specialist possible - reputable or not. He was ailing for a long time, and she was there with him, cheerful and steadfast. . . . When he died she basically took over the company for a while and turned out to be very good at business, too. And later, with all her charity work, she did amazing things. . . . It's just that she can be incredibly imposing, especially to us, mere mortals. And mother is sensitive, and she feels it so. Not only is grammy a tough act to follow, she is also very 'old school,' very 'stiff upper lip' when she wants to be. Mother can't help but feel somewhat weak and superficial next to her, and she resents it. Who wouldn't?"

Blake turned her head, her eyes fixed on something outside the window. The pause was designed to let the agents reach the conclusions that needed to be reached.

Jack voiced them first: "I take it, your mother and your grandmother don't get along."

Blake shrugged. "They don't worship each other, certainly. But there is no open animosity or anything like that. More often than not, they simply stay out of each other's way. Family gatherings and such they can't very well avoid, but other than that. . . . They don't go shopping together, if you know what I mean."

"I do." Jack exchanged glances with Vivian. "And how is your grandmother's relationship with the rest of you?"

"Oh, fine, I suppose. She's been good to us. Sometimes, to a fault. Especially to Allie. She has spoiled her rotten! But then, Allie's the baby, and also, grammy thinks she's a 'chip of the old block' - whatever that means. I guess it's mostly because she is too young to care for the more material advantages of our situation, and she is a tomboy. Grammy likes that. She says a lady isn't defined by a skirt and a manicure. She supposes Allie will grow up into her definition of one: stoic, self-contained, attentive to others but not subjected to them, and bound by a tremendous sense of duty. . . . I don't know. Allie's too unformed yet to tell. I certainly didn't turn out that way, but to grammy's credit, she doesn't hold it against me."

Vivian asked with interest: "You don't think a sense of duty is important?"

"Oh, I think duty is very important. And so does mother, for that matter. Duty to one's family, for instance. Only I don't think our interpretation of duty - or mother's at any rate - is exactly what grammy has in mind."

"I see. Was that at the crux of the argument yesterday?"

"Indirectly. May be. I don't know. . . . The argument was silly, really." Blake was looking out of the window again. Jack was beginning to recognize that as a sign of the girl's discomfort.

"You've got to understand: grammy is more than fair to us. She gave us this house, for one. When grandpa was alive, it was their place. When he died, she bought a suite on Park Avenue, and we moved here. Dad has to be in New York. The work, the clients, the meetings at all hours. We barely saw him when we lived in the Hamptons. This way, we are all together. At least more often than we used to be."

"You couldn't buy a place in Manhattan yourselves?" Jack was mystified.

"Oh, we could, of course, it's not the money at all. It's the neighbors and the environment that are the problem. Mother absolutely _refused _to live next door to the "riffraff,' as she put it. The new millionaires, the ones with the flashy cars and Versace-decorated living rooms. The old guard so seldom moves, you see, one cannot find a property in decent surroundings for sale these days. . . . And grammy doesn't care. She always said that environment was what one made of it."

"She is philosophical about it."

"Philosophical or oblivious. But, honestly, I think she secretly enjoys it. All those people with pretensions. She derives amusement from their activities. Much like she derives amusement from mother's."

"And your mother resents that, too, I bet."

"Oh, well, kind of." Blake sighed and stole a glance at her watch. Jack returned to the original question:

"What was the fight about exactly?"

"The guest list. Grammy put some people on it that mother later cut. And grammy didn't know. She thought the invitations went out, and then she ran into an old friend who told her that she wasn't invited. Grammy was furious. It was the one thing she insisted upon. She didn't interfere with the plans and the scope of the wedding, though she wasn't thrilled with any of it. She just wanted some people included. And mother. . . . I don't think she did it deliberately. She was just trying to do too much, make sure everything was flawless, and she had to cut that guest list three times already. She originally wanted about 800 people. We got it down to 500 plus, and some of grammy's guests were the casualties. . . . I didn't know." Blake sighed again, something of a genuine regret in her eyes and posture.

It suddenly occurred to Jack that she was very young. Not just in years, but in her outlook. Too young to carry responsibilities of this family and mediate its various egos. On the one hand, her mother was clearly her flagship in life. On the other hand, she wasn't stupid and she clearly saw the flaws of such a guide. Jack thought about divided loyalties, the perpetually absent father, and what that had possibly done to the family dynamic. No wonder the girl couldn't wait to shed the Stevens-Newberg.

xxxxxxxxx

Danny made a makeshift seat on a wide windowsill. He was a lot more at ease there than in a satin-covered armchair.

Sam left the room a while ago in search of Jack and Viv. Martin was going over the notes at a small table in the middle.

"I like to sit here, too." Danny was startled out of his reverie by the girl's voice. "The view is nice, and it's much more comfortable than mother's fruity chairs."

He smiled companionably: "I take it the decor is not your favorite?"

"Well, some of it's fine. I am not an expert. But the chairs here are the _pits_! I can't sit on them for long. My bum slides off."

"I hear you!" Danny moved to the side, making a place for the girl to sit next to him. Allie climbed the windowsill and pulled her legs up, pressing her chin to her knees: clearly her favorite way to sit.

"So, Allie, I gathered earlier that your mother and your grandmother don't see eye to eye. Do they often argue?"

"Often? No. Grammy is very tolerant, really. She understands mother better than mom thinks. Grammy says mother suffers from what she calls 'progressive positional myopia.' Mom's not a bad person, but because of the position she occupies in life, and because of the way she was raised, and also due to some natural inclinations, she is totally blind to anything not immediately in her 'sphere.' And that sphere is shrinking progressively with every passing year. . . . I mean, grammy isn't angry with mom, or annoyed all that much, really, because she thinks what mom has is a vision impairment - a disease - and you can't be angry with a person because they are impaired."

Danny looked at the girl intently: "You know, I think your grandmother is a very wise woman."

"Oh, she is. Wise and generous. And not just with money and stuff. She is really patient with people. And with business, too. Did you know she ran the company for a long while, when grandpa died and dad was too young to take it all on? They could have hired somebody, of course, and they did, but grammy was a real leader, not just a figurehead! And when dad got enough of a hang of it to be a success, she stepped down without a backward glance. She isn't at all petty, you know. Or mean. She says that practically everything in life is a state of mind. . . . Well, some things definitely aren't: like, the fact of birth, or health, or real accidents. But how you deal and who you become _is_. Grammy is a big believer in free will. In that way she gets mom better than any of us, because mom doesn't believe in free will so much as she believes in circumstances. If that makes any sense. . . ."

Danny nodded: "I think I get the picture."

"Grammy explained it all to me and Hank. Hank is my brother. He is 17. He is at school right now, prep boarding school: St. George's Academy in Massachusetts. He didn't want to go, but mom and dad insisted. Hank wanted to stay in New York. His friends are all here and stuff, but grammy explained it so that he - and me, too - didn't see it as such a big deal anymore. Like, since mom and dad won't budge, and he can't avoid it, Hank should treat this as a temporary inconvenience at worst, and a possible adventure at best. There are benefits: it's one of the best schools anywhere, and they all go to Ivy League afterward. And, as grammy put it, if mom's reality insists upon intruding on ours, we can at least derive something useful from it. She also says that almost anything in life is temporary, and, therefore, unimportant. Except for death. Death is permanent."

Danny felt a simultaneous desire to laugh and to cry: the sentiment was too true, even if put as a joke.

Allie continued: "Grammy was really funny about it. She told us stories from dad's school days, and how he at first didn't want to go, and later didn't want to leave. Seriously, he was getting bad grades on purpose, so he could stay another year! Can you _believe _it? Grammy says that all schools are basically atrocious, but the reputable ones at least have that reputation going for them, and a _much_, _much _better food. Also, that Hank should look at it as an opportunity to get the hell out of this _nuthouse_. Only she didn't say it quite like that. Grammy is real diplomatic: she wouldn't bad-mouth mom on purpose. Not to us, anyway. It's just the implication we got."

"What about your father?" The question was rather vague, Danny knew, but he reasoned that without knowing the specifics, it could be useful to learn about the family in general.

"Dad's single-minded. He can be _that _focused, but it's mostly with business. And he _loves _ mom. I mean, for real. I can't think why, but there it is. Also, anywhere outside of his work, he lacks imagination. He can never see that others feel, think, or understand things differently from him. He is forever surprised to discover that. Even with grammy, when she contradicts him on something. . . . In that way he is opposite to mom, because she is never shocked when others contradict her or feel differently from her. She just assumes that they are either unimportant or dead wrong. . . . You know how they say: knowledge is power? Well, with mom, ignorance is power. She never wants to know and people mostly just accept that."

Allie took a breather and looked around the room, as if noticing it for the first time.

"Where did Goldielocks go?"

Martin raised his head at this, and he and Danny smiled simultaneously.

"I assume you mean Agent Spade? She went to find our colleagues, who, I believe, are interviewing your sister."

"Oh, good _luck _to them! It's very possible you may never see them again: they could be buried under all the wedding garb."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**It has been pointed out to me by my excellent beta that I better advance the plot, and soon. LOL. In my usual dialog-writing induced haste, I seem to have forgotten that:) I promise to speed things up in the upcoming chapters. **

**Thank you, again, all of you wonderful people who responded. **

xxxxxxxxx

The woman really was infuriating. And infuriated. Danny observed her with detached curiosity from his position by the door, slightly away from the drama.

Martin - the most used of them all to the displays of an indignant power in action - played a willing recipient of all that wrath. He seated himself on a sofa, his posture correct but not tense. The body language was designed to convey to the lady of the house that the agents were apologetic, but firm; regretful of the inconvenience, but intent on doing their jobs nonetheless.

"I don't understand!" Mrs. Stevens-Newberg made a great show of not understanding. She paced the room, clutching and un-clutching her hands, a cross between Iphigenia and Lady Macbeth - someone who is being sacrificed to the cruel and inexplicable ends and someone about to kill for the greater good.

"I don't understand! I told all I could remember to your agent McLure. . . ."

"Malone."

"Pardon?"

"His name is agent Malone."

"Oh, what possible difference does it make! This is persecution, and I have a good mind calling your superiors right this minute!"

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg," Martin employed the tone of voice he sometimes used with his father, when that great man went on one of his authority binges. "You absolutely should call our superiors if you feel you are being treated unfairly. However, you cannot do it right this minute. Your mother-in-law - who, by all accounts is a dependable, reliable woman - is missing. Whether you actually believe her to be in danger or not, you have to realize that finding her and asserting that very absence of danger is somewhat of a priority."

"Fine," Mrs. Stevens-Newberg stopped pacing and set down on the sofa, her eyes firmly fixed on the ornamental carpet, as if looking directly at one of the agents would be granting them too much of a favor. "And don't think I won't call. This is insupportable. . . . And I still don't know what you are talking about. I most certainly did _not _have a fight with Harriett."

Samantha chimed in, armed with the additional information passed on to them by Jack:

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, both of your daughters claim that you and your mother-in-law had a volatile altercation early last evening."

The lady looked at Sam with undisguised disfavor.

"Nonsense. My daughters would claim no such thing. They misunderstood, that is all. I know Blake was too preoccupied with her wedding to pay proper attention to her grandmother or myself. And Allie . . . well . . . girls her age are universally ignorant, and Allie is somewhat slow in her development. Don't get me wrong, she is a very promising girl, but just now that promise is far from being fulfilled. . . . She is a typical teenager: self-involved, unmanageable, and altogether impossible."

"Her grandmother seems to be managing her just fine." Danny's comment came from the door, quiet, observational but meaningful, making the woman turn in surprise and annoyance.

"I don't believe I got your name, young man."

"You did, you just didn't remember. However, I have no objections to repeating it: Special Agent Taylor." Danny smiled one of his more provoking, lazy smiles, infuriating the woman even further, if such a thing was possible.

"Agent Taylor, you seem to be insinuating something, and I do not appreciate the implication. I will have you know that my mother-in-law's so-called _managing_ of Allie amounted to unpardonable spoiling of the girl. We can all manage teenagers well enough if we are willing to forgo discipline and resort to bribery! I, however, refuse to raise my children in such a way. They need to learn responsibility. . . ."

"No doubt, Ma'am," Martin cut into her indignant speech. "No one here is questioning your parenting skills. . . ."

"_He _does," the woman waved her well-manicured hand toward Danny.

"He didn't mean it that way at all. . . ."

"The hell I didn't," muttered Danny, but audibly enough for everyone to hear.

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg," Martin cut short any indignant reply the woman would have made, "whether your daughters misunderstood the content and the meaning of your discourse with your mother-in-law last evening, it is still undisputable that she was here, had a conversation with you, and _here _is the last place she was officially seen."

"Oh, as to that, I am sure someone saw her elsewhere after she had left. Frank drove her home, no doubt. Or to some other place. You should ask Frank." She was about to get up, as if, as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

"We will absolutely ask Frank, as soon as we locate him. He seems to be missing as well at the moment." Sam supplied that bit of information in a breezy, unconcerned tone, as if it was unimportant.

Camilla caught at it, however, with speed and acuity they did not expect from her.

"There you have it, then! Why torture us? If both Harriett and Frank are missing, they have obviously disappeared together, and therefore, whatever discussion I may have had with her last night is completely irrelevant!"

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, at this stage of the investigation, it is impossible to tell what is or isn't relevant. Any bit of information may turn out to be probative later on."

"And if it doesn't? Will the FBI be issuing any apologies? Because I do not appreciate being treated like a suspect, I can tell you that!"

"Then stop behaving like one," Danny's voice cut in again, distinctly if quietly.

"What my colleague means," Martin interceded again, "is that your refusal to answer our questions can be construed as the desire to hide something."

"I have absolutely nothing to hide! And my refusal to answer your questions is due to their utter ridiculousness. . . . Yes, Harriett and I _may_ have had some words, but our _very_ slight disagreement was in no way likely to result in any kind of harm. She may have left angry - I am sure I don't know why - but she certainly left. Where, I cannot tell you, as I have already stated to those other agents."

Danny seized the conversation, slight smile on his lips: "your daughter Blake has told those other agents that your mother-in-law was angry at you for not inviting some of her friends to the wedding."

Camilla huffed dismissively: "Oh, _that_! That was nothing. Yes, I was forced to streamline our guest list, and I am sure some of Harriett's people fell casualties to the process. What of it? Do you have any idea how important the _right_ selection of guests is to an event such as this?"

"Enlighten us," Danny suggested with that maddeningly bright smile of his.

Camilla turned away from him pointedly and addressed herself exclusively to Martin and Sam.

"A guest list can make or brake not just the wedding itself, but the very future of the family. I have to set priorities, you know! There are clients, business partners, and future possible contacts to accommodate. And then, of course, the social set has to be present. This is the most important time for a young lady to be ushered into society, second only to her Debutante Ball. Plus, do you have any idea how many relatives the Stevens-Newbergs have? Half of Europe is flying in! And, surely, no one can be expecting me to exclude my own family and friends? So what if some of Harriett's cronies were not invited? I don't even know who they are! Some woman she went to school with? What of it that she was Harriett's made of honor? She isn't even from any particular family. And there was someone else I cannot possibly recall right now. . . . In short, agents, she _may _have been somewhat displeased, and she _may _have decided to punish me by leaving and foregoing the wedding entirely, but you can hardly blame me for her petulant behavior."

"Wanna bet?" came from Danny's corner.

Camilla veered around, unable to ignore him any longer: "Young man, what is your name? I am making a formal complaint against you!"

"Go right ahead, but you need to do it fast: you have already forgotten my name twice, and there's no telling how long you'd be able to retain it in your memory a third time around."

"This is absolutely. . . ."

"Mrs. Steven's-Newberg," Martin was there in his firm peacemaker role once again, "your complaint is duly noted. Let's move on, so we can all go about our business as soon as possible."

Camilla considered it, her angry, icy gaze still on Danny, who returned it with a smile of utter innocence. "Fine, but only because I am so completely busy."

Samantha moved in with the next question: "Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, can you tell us what time your mother-in-law left your house?"

"I am not certain, but I should say around 7 o'clock. It was already dark outside, I believe."

"Did you see her get into the car?"

"Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I saw her to the door, and I watched Frank hand her into the limo and drive off."

"Can Blake, or anybody else, corroborate that?"

"You are doubting my word?"

Sam extended her hand in a calming gesture: "Not at all. But it helps if there are other people who can verify the events and the time-line."

"Well, Blake, I'm sure can verify the time, at least. She didn't go to the door with us, but she said good-bye to her grandmother as she was leaving. . . . Would that be all?"

"For now," came Danny's comment from the peanut gallery.

Camilla got up with the finality that left the agents no choice but to follow.

"I have been subjected to this long enough. Now, if you excuse me, I have _real _work to do. I would ask that in the future, if you have any more questions for me or my family, you contact our attorney, Leonard Morgan, of Peabody Morgan's. I am sure you are familiar with them."

"I am sure we will be, by the time this is over," Danny's was the last word in this round.

xxxxxxxxx

"So, I hear 'good cop/bad cop' went well." Jack took a bite of his Spring Roll and loosened his tie with relief.

They were assembled around the conference table, assorted Chinese mingled with notes and other paper records on the top of it. The meal was late and haphazard but much needed for most of them, since lunchtime was a distant memory and the trip to the High Society physically draining.

Sam laughed: "It was more like 'good cop/stern cop/snarky cop' in there. I tried to be good, but the Madam would have probably made Mother Teresa turn homicidal."

Jack nodded with a smile: "I've had the pleasure of meeting her. I can well understand. I hear she wanted Danny hung and quartered?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Danny's mischievous smile belied the injured innocence in his voice: "Mrs. Stevens-Newberg and I are fast friends! She even wanted me to attend the wedding, if only there was time enough to fit me for the breeches and a riding jacket!"

"Now _that_ I would have payed to see," said Vivian. "Then again, you can always borrow the theme for your own wedding. We can have horses commandeered from the local PD. I can pull some of my old strings."

Everybody laughed at the image, as Danny shook his head vehemently: "Nope. Not going there."

"What, no themed wedding?"

"No wedding, full stop."

Sam challenged him: "Oh, you say that, but you never know. You are _bound _to meet someone you'd want to take the trip down the isle with some day."

"I would have to be bound and _gagged _in order to take that trip, Sam. . . . Now, Marty here, he is the marrying kind, I'm sure."

"Why would you be sure?" asked Martin, his attention still on his plate.

"Because, you give off this whole 'Everybody's All American' vibe. I bet you can have a themed wedding and get away with it."

"Thanks, but no thank you. I don't have enough imagination for a truly original theme, and I wouldn't really want to commit a social _faux pas_ of replicating someone else's."

"We can find a theme for you," suggested Vivian with a teasing smile. "Something classic, wholesome, reassuring, and heartwarming. Like _The Wizard of Oz_."

"Great idea!" Exclaimed Danny. "Eight little boys dressed as winged monkeys, Marty in ruby slippers. . . ."

"Sounds like a very _gay _wedding," noted Jack in mock thoughtfulness. "I think Martin will have hard enough time fitting half of D.C. into a church, let alone explaining to his father where the theme came from."

"Can we stop making fun of my hypothetical wedding now?" Martin feigned indignation. "I missed lunch, I am very hungry and tired, and I am in no mood to be disabusing you lot of any wrong ideas you may have formed about my mode of living. And, by the way, Jack, D.C. is a relatively small town. Everybody who's anybody will have no problem fitting into one church. Especially considering that I am not inviting any of you!"

"Hey, Viv, did your wedding have a theme?" Sam asked when a bout of companionable laughter had subsided.

"Sure it had a theme. It was called 'Let's Do It Quickly Before My Stomach Starts Showing' theme. I was three months along with Reggie. What can I say: Marcus and I were young and invincible in our optimism."

"Well," Jack observed, "it didn't turn out so badly, after all."

"No, it didn't. Believe me, I am not complaining. . . ." Vivian wanted to ask Jack about his wedding, but, considering the rawness of the recent events, decided against it. Instead she turned to Sam: "What was yours like?"

Martin stopped eating and looked at Sam intently, but it was Danny who voiced the surprise: "You were married?"

Samantha shrugged: "For about a minute and a half. Years ago. Words 'young' and 'stupid' come to mind. The wedding was kind of like that, too: spontaneous, volatile, and over quickly." She looked at Martin as she said it, telegraphing something to him.

Vivian felt that she might have said more than she should have. "Sam, sorry, I didn't think it was a secret."

"Oh, it isn't. Honestly, it was so insignificant and over so long ago, I forget it happened or that some people don't know."

Jack came to her rescue: "Hey, it's OK. Most weddings are best forgotten. And some marriages, too."

A suddenly somber silence descended on the small group around the table.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**As always, heartfelt thanks go out to all the kind people who reviewed. Mariel3, you are absolutely right, it's 'make or break." This is just the kind of a little, but crucial thing that is liable to slip under one's radar when English is one's second language. LOL.**

"Let's run the timeline," Jack neared the white board in his usual brisk, purposeful manner.

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg has an altercation with her daughter-in-law somewhere before 7 p.m. She then leaves the house at 7." He drew the diagonals and filled in the words and times.

"Is that substantiated?" Vivian inquired.

"By Blake, at least. There are several servants in the house at normal times. The housekeeper lives in, but it was her night off. There is a cook, who, unfortunately, doesn't work weekends, so, no help there. We're checking that, of course, in all due diligence, but there's no real reason to suppose that either of them were there at the time. There are two maids who work alternate days, and who sometimes double up. But we weren't that lucky yesterday. The maid on duty was there until 6 p.m. She confirmed letting Mrs. Stevens-Newberg the Elder into the house. She also confirmed seeing Frank Argello, the likewise missing chauffeur, leaning against the limo and smoking a cigarette at about 6:15 p.m." Another diagonal was drawn, while Jack continued" "She stopped and talked to him for a bit. She says he behaved and looked 'normal.'"

"Whatever that means," interjected Sam. Did he mention anything about his employer's travel plans?"

"Nope. According to the maid, they talked about the weather and his family. Your usual small talk." Jack tapped the marker on the board: "Then we have the 7 p.m. departure of Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, presumably home to pack. Camilla declares she saw her mother-in-law enter the car and be driven off by Frank."

"Anything on that car?" Sam, Vivian, and Jack turned to Martin, who consulted a piece of paper in front of her.

"Nothing from Highway patrols yet, nothing from the local PD. We put APB on it. It's a limo, hard to miss. If it's out on the road somewhere, we'll hear something soon. Danny's on the chauffeur, so, hopefully, we'll get the particulars soon."

Jack nodded: "Good. Where are we on the obvious places?"

Vivian shook her head: "So far, nothing in morgues or hospitals. No Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, no Frank Argello, no Jane or John Does matching their descriptions. Also, the last precinct just got back to me, and there are no vehicular accidents reported that involved limos."

Danny walked in with a note pad, the usual skip in his step.

"OK, here's what I got on our Frank. He was hired through the agency called New York Domestics. They supply for the family. The cook and the maids are also come from there. A reliable firm, has been in business for years. All the references and background checks are in order. I talked to my guy on the local force. He says there are very few complaints about the place, which is unusual, because complaints about domestics are dime a dozen. In other words, Frank checks out."

Danny perched himself on the edge of the table and deposited his note pad on one knee.

"Frank Argello - Brooklyn address attached - has been employed by the agency for the past 13 years. He's been working for the Stevens-Newbergs for the last 3 of them. Used to drive the son, but has been moved to driving the mother about 8 months ago. Allie mentioned something about her grandmother's eyesight worsening lately. According to the records, until recently she did not require a driver. Got herself around on her own outside of town, and took cabs in Manhattan. . . . Our Frank works weekdays 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., and alternate weekends. The agency told me they stipulate flexibility in their employees, and Frank, apparently, did not object to working Saturdays, or late hours sometimes. The employers compensate really well, for one thing, and, clearly, driving Miss Daisy was a pretty laid-back job at most times. She went to her charity committees meetings, occasional lunches with friends and business connections. She liked to go to the Central Park, and generally get around Manhattan, but she still preferred to use cabs for that. She apparently didn't like to roll out Frank for every little occasion."

Danny smiled at the idea of a feisty old lady asserting her independence by giving her chauffeur an unauthorized day off.

Jack smiled too, but quickly moved to the next topic: "What have you got on his family?"

Danny's smile faded just as quickly: "I'm afraid I freaked them out. I spoke to his wife. She told me that Frank called last night, at about 7:15 p.m., informing her that he will not be coming home. He said he was to drive Mrs. Stevens-Newberg to the Hamptons and that he'd remain there for some time. He promised to call at some point and tell her when he was coming back."

"Wasn't that irregular?" Vivian raised an eyebrow.

"Apparently, not so much. That is, when Frank worked for Mr. Stevens-Newberg, this used to happen all the time. He'd drive the guy to all sorts of out-of-town places, and the stays would often turn into several days deal. But it hasn't happened with the lady. This was the first time in 8 months."

"And the wife wasn't curious or alarmed?"

"No. Why would she be? It was par for the course for his job. Frank, she said, sounded the way he normally did when these things occurred: resigned, slightly annoyed, but also glad, because those trips usually meant triple overtime. She hasn't given it a second thought until I called." Danny put his pad aside.

The group stood there for a while, absorbing the information.

"Let's talk about motive," Jack broke into everyone's reverie. "If this is a kidnapping, where's the ransom demand? Everyone knows the family's got loads of money. If granny was grabbed for that reason, someone should have contacted them by now."

"May be they have." Sam observed. "It's not like the madam was eager to cooperate with us. She may have gotten the ransom demand, called her husband, and they may have decided to deal with it on their own."

"Well, that would be stupid, but I wouldn't put it past them." Jack sighed, and continued: "I've put in for the warrant to monitor the phones in that house, but I am doubtful we'll get it. However, we will have unobtrusive surveillance set up: see if there's any unusual activity. One good thing about this case coming down to us through the Governor: plenty of man power and resources at our disposal. In the meantime, we will operate under the assumption that there is no ransom, and that this is something other than a kidnapping for gain. Do we have any idea yet if Mrs. Stevens-Newberg had any enemies?"

Vivian consulted her paper again: "There are her charity connections, and her old friends, but nothing pops out. That is, not yet. It's still early. . . . Something tells me, we need to reconstruct her whole day yesterday. At least in order to see where we should start."

"OK," Jack switched to his action mode, "Martin, you are on her connections: charity, personal, old business ones, the ones that have resurfaced recently. Also, take a look at her financials: anything that might seem probative. You know the drill."

Martin nodded and headed toward the hallway.

Jack continued: "Danny, Viv, I want you guys to check her place. I know the youngest daughter said she didn't think her grandmother made it there last night, but we still need to verify that. Anything that indicates packing or lack thereof. Or anything that looks out of the ordinary. Again, I don't have to tell you what to do."

"Right," Danny tucked his note pad under his arm. "We'll talk to the door man, as well. Grab surveillance tapes, see if she did come back, after all."

"Good. Sam you are with me. We have a meeting with the uninvited friend of Mrs. Stevens-Newberg's. The one that the lady ran into yesterday. The one that started all the trouble. Blake unearthed the name for us from some old version of the guest list. And after that we are off to the airport. Mr. Stevens-Newberg's jet is due to land in two hours."

"Rolling out a red carpet, Jack?" Vivian smiled sarcastically.

"Absolutely. With champagne and long-stemmed roses. Harriett's phone records indicate that she called her son's hotel in Paris 3 times yesterday. If this isn't a kidnapping, he just may be our best bet as to finding her whereabouts."

xxxxxx

"Nice digs," observed Danny, his tone only slightly sarcastic. The place was, in a word, nice. Spacious rooms; large windows with see-through curtains, unincumbered by the heavy window treatments customary to such apartments; furniture that looked light and functional, if clearly expensive; very little brick-a-brack; photographs in silver frames - the place's almost only decorations. Knowing what he already learned about the lady, Danny wasn't surprised by the airiness and the simplicity of the her home. It went along with her personality: light, dignified, with a slight hint of fun about it.

They have been let in by the doorman. The same doorman, as it turned out, who was on duty yesterday, when Mrs. Stevens-Newberg was seen at her apartment last. According to the man, she left somewhere after 5 o'clock, slightly agitated. When asked if everything was all right, she answered: "Not by a long shot!" The doorman got the impression that she was angry and upset.

They asked him the customary questions. "The old lady is nice, always classy and polite, always mindful of people's feelings. Never snippy, never treats one like something less than she is. Generous bonuses at Christmas. Well-liked by neighbors. Nice dog, too. Well-behaved. No, no one suspicious approached her recently. No unusual guests. Yes, she sometimes goes out of town, though she does normally inform the doorman on duty of the fact. No, she didn't mention a trip. No she didn't come back at any time last night or today. Yes, the security tapes are available."

The short interview was conducted in the elevator, on the way up to Mrs. Stevens-Newberg's apartment, where they now stood, admiring the scenery.

"I like it," decided Vivian. "I wish I could afford it."

Danny smiled: "May be when Marcus wins his Nobel Prize. . . ."

"Are you kidding? It's only a million. A million bucks wouldn't buy you a limo garage in Manhattan these days. . . . No, I'm afraid I'll have to wait for Reggie to go to College, become a financial wizard, and strike it rich. Or until I win the lottery. Which ever comes first."

Danny moved into the next room, chuckling along the way, and almost jumped in surprise.

"What are you _doing_ here?"

Allie, holding a small, hairy dog, shrugged with ill-executed bravado. "I came to take Truman. He can't be left alone here another night." She tried to sound nonchalant, but the voice came out defensive and shaky.

"How did you get in? The doorman didn't tell us someone was here."

Another shrug from Allie: "That doorman? The short, bold guy in green jacket? Looks like the Kibler Elf?" Both Danny and Vivian suppressed a laugh: the description was too accurate. "He didn't see me. He was flirting with a lady cab driver. I just walked in."

Danny shook his head in disbelief.

"You said that the doorman had to let you in this morning. I am assuming it was another doorman. What I would like to know is where you got the key?"

Allie sunk into an easy chair, hugging Truman close to her chest: "Out of a safe box. This morning. Grammy keeps a spare in her bedroom. She always has spares, 'cause she loses things. . . . Not because she's old," the girl hastened to add, lest the agents should think otherwise, "she is sharp as a tack! It's just she is careless of things. Has been all her life. I am like that, too. I lose keys, wallets, umbrellas, hats, gloves, books. . . . I once lost my shoes. I went to the Pier with a bunch of girls from school two years ago, and we took our shoes off to dip our feet in water, and I forgot to put my shoes back on! Mother was furious when I got home that day. They were expensive shoes. She _insists_ on getting me expensive stuff, and I don't want it, precisely because I lose everything. But she says I should at least _pretend _to be discerning, since I have no taste. Her words. . . . It's good she doesn't have any influence over grammy," a sudden delightful smile lit up her face: "She would have made grammy change her shoes, too, if she could."

"Allie," Danny approached the girl, and ran his hand through the silky hair of the small terrier. "You can't just come and go here as you please. I know your grandmother wouldn't mind, but this is part of the investigation now, and, until we find her, we need everything undisturbed."

"I can show you what I touched and give you my fingerprints, if you need them," the girl offered enthusiastically. And then the implication sank in: "Do you really think someone broke in here and did something to grammy?" Her eyes became big as saucers, tears brimming in them ready to spill.

"No, Allie, no! Don't get upset. At this time we don't know anything. We have no reason to doubt that your grandmother came here at all." Both Vivian and Danny felt suddenly compelled to comfort her. "We are just checking every possible angle. To be absolutely sure."

Allie sighed and got up. "Can I take Truman? You don't need him here, do you?"

"No, we don't." Something occurred to Danny: "Allie, does your mother know you are here?"

"No, why?" the girl seemed surprised.

"Well," Vivan explained, "It's after 8 p.m., and the parents usually like to know where their kids are at that time."

"Oh, I am not a kid," Allie asserted in a tone that betrayed just how much of a kid she really was. "And I am often here at this time. Of course grammy always has Frank drive me home. But it's OK. I'll take a cab."

"You will do no such thing!" Declared Danny. "I will drive you. Right after you call your mother and tell her where you are and that you are safe and coming home."

"Cool." Allie perked up at the idea of a ride with an agent. "Only you are wrong about mom. She never worries about me," and realizing how it sounded, explained: "Not that she never _worries_ about me. She does. She just knows that I can be relied on take care of myself. It's other stuff she worries about: like correct behavior and such."

Danny and Viv exchanged glances and the girl caught the exchange. "I know, you must think that my being here now is pretty stupid, but, honestly, I only came for Truman, and I was going right back home."

"OK, Miss Reliable," Vivian smiled, "can we rely on you to sit here while we look over the place, and not interrupt?"

"Sure," was her cautious reply. "But, I can be very helpful, you know! I know all about grammy's place. I _practically _live here, 'specially on weekends!"

"You said you were certain your grandmother didn't pack," asked Danny with a resigned air of someone giving up the struggle. "Why are you certain?"

"Because, her luggage is still in that closet, in the hallway. She usually packs lightly, but she does pack. She has an old suitcase - a _disgrace_, mother calls it - that she loves. It went with grammy to Europe in the 70s, when she traveled a lot, and in the 90s, when she went around on business. And she took it to Boston with her that time when she went to live there for a while. She likes it. It's an old American Tourister from the early 50s. It's that comfortable and really well-made. And it has all those cool stickers on it, the kind they used to put on luggage at airports and hotels. Pity they don't make those nice ones anymore. We went to Europe for the Summer last year, and nothing nearly as interesting ended up on my suitcase."

"Allie, getting back to the question. . . ."

"Right, well, her suitcase is still here. And the other stuff she travels with. That dresser case in her bedroom closet? I checked - still there! And her toothbrush and whatnot. . . . And then, there's Truman! No way would she have left him here alone! There's just _no way_!" Allie paused, thinking. "I don't care what mom says: grammy could get pissed, but she would have said good-bye to me! Even if she did decide to walk out on Blake and her wedding." The tears were threatening to come back, and Danny quickly jumped in to prevent them.

"Allie, the doorman who let us in was also on duty last night. He told us your grandmother left at around 5:10 p.m. What time did she arrive at your house, do you remember?"

"Ah . . . yeah, about quarter to 6. I remember, because I was watching a video, and she stopped at my room to say 'hi,' and she was kind'a odd. All flushed-like. I asked if she wanted water, but she said she was fine and that she wasn't staying long: just a quick talk with mother. . . . But I definitely think she wasn't right."

"Not right? How do you mean?"

"She was preoccupied. And she was breathing heavily. I even asked if she had ran, and she said 'no.' And then I asked for Truman, and she seemed surprised, like she just realized she left him at home. . . . I didn't interfere, 'cause she was so intent to talk to mom. Do you think I should have?"

"No, dear," Vivan's voice was soothing and kind. "None of this is your fault."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**I am, as ever, grateful to everyone who is staying with this, admittedly long, story. And to all who reviewed. Thank you!**

Claire Harriford was exactly what Jack expected: lean, elegant in a way an elderly woman can be, and completely undaunted by her surroundings. His original reluctance to interview her at the FBI quarters was assuaged by the woman's easy acceptance of the proposed time and place, and by her clear desire to be helpful in any way possible. Still, he felt compelled to explain:

"Mrs. Harriford, I am very sorry we can't offer more auspicious surroundings for this interview, but the time is so important. . . ."

She cut him short: "Don't worry about it, please. I have no problem coming here, nor do I think you suspect me of anything because you invited me to your office. I want to help, I want Hattie found, I pray nothing happened to her." She sighed, her eyes telegraphing just how troubled her thoughts were.

Samantha entered the room, a glass of water in her hand. She handed it to Mrs. Harriford and took a seat beside Jack.

"Thank you, Mrs. Harriford. We appreciate this greatly. . . . We understand that you've met with Mrs. Stevens-Newberg some time yesterday, and that you informed her of the fact that you weren't invited to her granddaughter's wedding."

"It wasn't like that. Hattie and I met for lunch. We try to do this at least once a month." She smiled a far away smile that suddenly made her face seem so much younger than her early 70s. "We were at school together, Hattie and I. Vassar College, before it went co-ed. Ages ago. . . . I know, it's hard to believe that two old biddies were ever young and at school."

Sam smiled sheepishly, since that was exactly the thought that darted through her mind a moment ago.

"We are very close. Remained so through the years, through the marriages, children, deaths, changes in situations. If we are both in town, we always, always see each other at least twice a month. I have to tell you, agent Malone, Hattie is unique. She is my support system, and she has always been a rock. I am forever the one with the problems, and when I see her, she usually dispels my gloom and finds a solution for practically anything. . . . That is why it was so painful to see her like that yesterday."

Jack and Sam exchanged glances.

"Like what?"

"So saddened. So . . . defeated . . . yes, there's no other word for it."

"Because her daughter-in-law did not invite you to the wedding?"

Mrs. Harriford looked up in surprise: "Goodness, no. Although that didn't improve the matters. . . . I wouldn't even have mentioned it, if she hadn't said she'll see me at the wedding next week when we were making good-byes. Then I had no choice but to say I wasn't invited. If anything, that put some fight back into her. For the moment she was her old, energetic self. This, at least, was something she could do a thing about. If in gesture only, considering."

Jack wrinkled his brow: "Mrs. Harriford, please help us out here: are you saying there was something else that troubled your friend? Something other than the wedding invitation?"

"Of course. The invitation wasn't a trouble: it was a nuisance, the kind her confounded fool of a daughter-in-law is forever known for. Hattie isn't the type to get depressed over nuisances. She doesn't mind small things. Or small minds, for that matter. . . . I want you to know: I would never, under any other circumstances, have told you this." She took a pause, as if gathering resolve. "For starters, those are not my troubles to impart; and secondly, I despise a telltale. But Hattie's missing, and if it turns out this trouble has something to do with it. . . . She met me yesterday at The Palm Court, Plaza Hotel. We usually have afternoon tea there when we meet. They call it the 'afternoon tea,' but basically it's a midday meal anywhere from 11:30 to 6. . . . Hattie likes those Old World traditions. They give her an illusion of a civilized society - an illusion that's getting harder and harder to maintain."

Mrs. Harriford's took a sip of her water: "I could immediately see that she wasn't herself. She was more silent than usual, and when I asked what was wrong, she said an oddest thing. She said: 'I am a failure.'"

"A failure?" Jack repeated the statement to make sure he heard right.

"Yes. I was mystified at first. Hattie, you see, cannot be considered a failure in any estimation: she is highly educated, she made a success of her marriage and the business. Late in life, too, at the time when most women find challenges taking grandchildren to the zoo. She took over the company after Harrison's death, and, let's just say, they don't call her Hattie the Great for nothing. And now, that she is finally at her leisure, she is running several very difficult charities and making a success of that, as well. So, you can see why I was taken aback when she made that statement."

"Did she explain what she meant?" Samantha asked with a reassuring nod.

"After I insisted, yes. . . . And, once again, I would like to stress that this is just what she told me. She may have been mistaken. She may have exaggerated. I don't want you to draw any kind of a hasty conclusion. . . ."

"Mrs. Harriford, I assure you: we try to avoid hasty conclusions in our line of work at all costs. Also, by no means will we take what you've told us in confidence as anything other than your concern for your friend and a desire to help." Jack's tone, as well as his expression, were kind but urgent. Claire Harriford assessed him carefully and nodded.

"Hattie said that it came to her attention lately that the company is corrupt. And by that, she didn't mean some slightly overextended bonuses here and there, or a favor for this or that official who can be helpful down the line. That is common enough in business, and Hattie is no fool. She knows better than most how much finesse is required in high-power dealings on any given day. . . . She took over officially in 1996, when her husband passed. But, really, she was a de-facto head for a long time before that. Harrison was ailing for years , and there was no one he trusted more than Hattie. . . . When she handed the reins over to Junior in 2000, it was a vibrant, steady, profitable company, with aboveboard, beyond-reproach reputation."

"And now?"

The lady sighed: "I am not an expert, by any means, and Hattie didn't divulge technical details, but the gist of it was that, somehow, things were rather bad. Double sets of books, one picture presented to the board, another to the stockholders. I dare say you come across this often enough in your line of work, Agent Malone, and even the most sheltered of us hear about Enron and Worldcome. But one just doesn't expect that in one's own circle, you know. Hattie certainly didn't. Not from Junior, not like that. . . ."

She put the glass down on the table, but held on to it, making a pattern on its surface with her thumb. It was a small gesture, but somehow it communicated her distress better than any loud statements or elaborate displays of emotion would have done.

"You don't know her, you see. For Hattie to look like that, to feel like that! . . . She was deflated, beaten. As if her entire world came crushing down. I have never, in all of our 53-year-long acquaintance, seen her like this. As I said, she is forever everybody's rock, and she's never faced a problem she couldn't tackle. This. . . . This was something that blind-sided her, and she, may be for the first time in her life, was at a loss."

"Did she say she thought the company was in danger of disintegrating? Was she afraid for her financial health?"

"Goodness, no! Her own finances are secured. As well as the kids trust funds. That has been taken care of a long time ago. No, she wasn't worried about the money angle."

"Then why did she talk of failure? The company is no longer under her supervision. She isn't responsible." Sam asked with genuine surprise.

"Because it's her son, don't you see?" Mrs. Harriford pressed her thumb to the glass so hard, it almost tipped over. "That, to Hattie, would be the biggest failure possible. Money didn't come into it. . . . Harrison Jr. was always difficult. Hardly surprising, if you think about it: his parents are exactly the kind of people a sensitive and not altogether generously gifted child would find daunting to emulate or live up to. Junior was never the kind of a boy that one would have expected from Hattie and Harrison, but then again, children seldom are what we expect."

"He was difficult how? Was he wild?"

Mrs. Harriford smiled: "Oh, no, not at all. If anything, he lacked spirit. The kind of spirit both his parents had in abundance. It wasn't anything specific, but Hattie was forever concerned that Junior wasn't a fighter, that he preferred the easier solutions to the right ones. . . . Not that there was much cause for real concern, mind you. He did well in school, and he definitely has the business sense. It's his other senses that are lacking. Hattie . . . she never had illusions as to what he could do, but I think she honestly thought that, given the right set up, he'd do the right thing. He was raised that way, he was taught that way, and, considering what has happened, Hattie feels that she has failed. On the most basic, profound level a person can fail: as a parent."

She took another sip of water, her hands shaking slightly at the memory that clearly affected her deeply. "Hatty was so much not herself, I was seriously considering taking her to a doctor. She looked frail! She never looks frail - she is the youngest spirit I have ever encountered, at any age. She scared me. . . ."

Samantha took the empty glass from the older woman's hands.

"Can I offer you more water, Mrs. Harriford?"

"Thank you, dear. I'd appreciate that."

Jack asked, as Sam was leaving the room: "Did you seriously think she was ill?"

"No, but I hoped a doctor could suggest something, prescribe something. . . . I honestly don't know: I just wanted to help her somehow, to offer something useful, you see. And, as it turned out, all I had to do was mention that silly wedding mishap. May be it was the last straw, or simply a push needed to snap her out of her state, but Hattie was back with a vengeance by the time we parted."

xxxxxxxx

"Guys, wait!" Martin caught up with Jack and Sam at the elevator. "I've got something."

"Ride with us. We have to move or we'll miss Stevens-Newberg at LaGuardia." Jack pressed the "down" button repeatedly. "What do you have?"

"I've been checking Mrs. Stevens-Newberg financials - nothing probative there, but while I was doing it, 'the bells' went off. Not for her, but for the company. It's been tagged. Guess by whom?"

Jack and Sam exchanged a smile: "By us?"

"There's a probe, right?" Sam asked fairly surprised Martin.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"The old lady's friend told us as much. Apparently, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg has found out about it recently. She was definitely upset."

"As well she may be," said Martin. "According to the White Collar guys, the company is into some funky practices. I won't bore you with details now, but you might want to sit down with Ken Ballard from that Unit when you get a chance."

"Will do, if it becomes necessary. For now, though, let's see if Mr. Stevens-Newberg himself can shed some light on the situation."

The elevator doors opened and the agents got in.

"While we are there, Martin, I need you to look into the driver's financials, as well." Jack pressed the "Lobby" button. "We are assuming this is about the lady - which, considering who she is and what she's worth, is not an unreasonable assumption - but what if it's not? They guy is missing, too, and his employer may just be a bystander."

Martin nodded: "It has occurred to me already. I have someone running his records as we speak. I plan on calling on his wife, too. I know Danny talked to her, but that was just an initial conversation to assertain that Frank wasn't, in fact, home safe. We need to have a real talk with her. If it turns up nothing, at least we can strike this theory off our list."

Jack and Sam exited the elevator, and Martin stayed on to ride back up. He watched them walk away, in comfortable, animated conversation, and, not for the first time, felt uneasy. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sam - or Jack, for that matter. If asked, Martin would have dismissed the idea that he'd hold a three-year old history against either of them. He, in all honesty, wasn't concerned about the past. Moving on was a part of life. Mistakes were part of life. What bothered him was the future: this all too real possibility that what Sam told him was in the past, was not, in fact, buried there. "Old feelings don't die, but fade away," she said. Like ghosts, thought Martin, liable to hang around and throw their chilly presence on what ought to be alive. Yes, Martin was honest with himself, and he feared that, sometimes the ghosts were stronger than the living. And the fear and frustration came from the fact that he couldn't tell if Samantha herself was ready, or even wanted to exorcise them.

xxxxxx

Danny put the gear in reverse and moved the car from the parking spot. Thank God for the Fed tags, one of the few perks of the job: the ability to park anywhere, at any time, in this city notorious for its lack of parking spaces.

Vivan in the back seat ended the conversation on her cell. She shot a concerned glance at Allie, currently strapped to the passenger seat, but the girl was occupied by playing with Truman's years, arranging a basket and a large brown bag of dog food.

Vivan bent close to Danny's ear: "Jack is surprisingly _not _surprised by our findings. Apparently, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg told her friend at lunch yesterday. And our good colleagues at the White Collar are taking a long, hard look at the Coldwell Stevens-Newberg Livingston Prime."

Danny nodded: "That explains the letter. No wonder she was furious."

They found the letter on Mrs. Stevens-Newberg's desk: a half-finished, crisp, polite but anguished letter to the Board of Directors, indicating some disturbing information that has reached the lady recently, and demanding an emergency meeting.

Vivian settled herself in the back seat and addressed the girl: "Allie, how certain are you that your grandmother did not simply leave?"

Allie turned to her in surprise: "Pretty certain. Why would she?"

"Well, she was upset. She may not have felt like attending a family gathering or facing that many people."

"She still wouldn't have bailed on Blake. She just wouldn't. . . ."

Danny joined in: "Didn't you say that she's done it before: left for Boston some time ago?"

"Yes, but she called, like, the next day! And she sent notes to people. Grammy's big on notes. She says they are the tokens of polite intercourse. And, anyway, she would have surely taken Truman with her, upset or not. And her things. And she would have said good-bye to me."

"She may have been too distraught to think things through at the moment," Vivian pointed out.

Allie shrugged: "At the moment. That was yesterday. She would have called by now."

A sad, apprehensive silence settled in the car as the implication sunk in.

Danny broke it, wanting to change the mood and cheer the girl up a little: "Are you in the wedding party, Allie?"

The imp made a face.

"God, yeah. And I wish I didn't have to. Mom is making me: I am one of the bridesmaids."

"How many are there?" asked Viv curiously.

"Twelve. Her best friend from school, her two roommates from College, seven appalling cousins from all over, Tinsley, and me. Blake has to have twelve, because - you guessed it - Tinsley had 10! We are upping everything by 2. I begged to be let out, since 11 is still more than 10, but nooo! I then suggested cousin Angela from Syracuse, but she won't do, because Blake says she is 'twitchy.' Whatever that means."

Danny chuckled: "You don't want to be the center of attention?"

"I won't be either way! Blake will be that. And the kind of attention those dresses are gonna draw, I do not want _ever_! You should see them: they are modeled after a riding habit, only scarier. It's a red satin top that's half tuxedo, half surgical corset. And the bottom is this long, black and white checkered skirt, with loops and folds! It's terrifying. It will make small children cry. The good news is, Blake gave up on making me wear a hat with it. I positively refused. I threw a fit, and she had to relent! But every other poor girl will have to have this shiny, black monstrosity topped with a feather perched on their heads!"

Vivian snorted at the image: "It can't be that bad."

"Oh, it is! And the whole getup costs $1,500 each! I don't have to pay, thankfully, but all the rest of them do. All that money to look like a deranged chimney sweep in drag!"

Danny offered consolation through the fits of laughter: "At least you won't have to ride in on a horse."

Allie giggled: "Blake didn't speak to me for a week after I asked during one of the rehearsals what would she do if the horse decided to poop in the middle of the trot down the isle."

"What _is_ she going to do?"

"Oh, they are literally going to starve the poor animal for two days before the ceremony to avoid the possibility of that. I then asked what would happen if the horse fell over from hunger, and Blake kicked me out of the rehearsal. . . . When I am married, I'll do what grammy did: have a handful of people who are there to celebrate instead of being subjected to the inconvenience and the expense of seeing me make a total idiot of myself. No stupid themes, and definitely no barnyard animals."

"In other words, you are eloping," Danny suggested with a smile. "Any candidates for a future husband yet?"

"Are you nuts? I'm 14!" Allie rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way. "And I won't do it at 22, like Blake, either. I want to live first! Anyway, most boys are dumb."

"That's the spirit," Vivian offered her approval with a laugh.

"Still," Allie mused, "I can see why Blake wants to do it. She lucked out with Jim and she doesn't want to let him escape."

"You approve of her choice, I take it?"

"I approve of it for Blake. Jim Lindval is like a dream guy for her, though he is probably a nightmare guy for someone else, with different personality. He's got the right pedigree, the right appearance, and the right education. And you can substitute education for 'obedience school.' Jim is like a big, expensive show dog, and I mean it affectionately. He is a sweetheart, really. A Bernese Mountain Dog, likely. You know the breed? Large, loyal, highly trainable, intelligent, and with great hair. He'd drive the cows home and he'd come and rescue you if you are buried under an avalanche."

"I bet Blake doesn't approve of you talking like that about her fiancee." Vivian was torn between a strong desire to laugh and a very parental impulse to check the girl's free flow of teenage indiscretion.

Danny, not plagued by any such impulses, laughed freely.

"Blake doesn't approve of me talking. Period." Allie shrugged again, fairly unconcerned. "Are you married?" She turned to Danny suddenly. "I see no ring, but that doesn't mean anything these days. You may just not like jewelry."

Danny looked up in surprise: "No, I am not married."

"How come?"

"Well, Allie, not everyone meets that special someone. . . ."

"I already asked you to not patronize me. Of course, not everyone meets _that special someone_, and it would be a good explanation if it wasn't so totally common for people to marry all kinds of _un-special_ someones. You are probably just picky."

Danny looked to the back seat for some support: "Viv, help me out here!"

Vivian smiled, thoroughly enjoying Danny's sudden discomfort: "You are on your own, my friend."

"You don't have to tell me," Allie let poor Danny off the hook. "I was just making conversation."

She busied herself with Truman's ears again, stealing an occasional glance in Danny's direction.

Danny concentrated on navigating busy Manhattan streets, making it clear that this venue of questioning was closed.

They drove the rest of the way to Allie's Upper East Side home in silence: Viv going over her notes, Danny driving, Allie thoughtfully stroking the Yorkee's silky forehead, and Truman, oblivious to the turmoil around, blissfully sleeping in Allie's lap.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**Thank you to all faithful readers, especially Anmodo, Mariel3, and SpyMaster – you guys rock!**

**SpyMaster: it NEVER gets old! LOL.**

xxxxx

"What can you tell me? Is she really missing? What is being done? Should I call someone else? I can pay for a State-wide search if need be. . . ."

"Mr. Stevens-Newber, please, sit down. Let me assure you that we are doing everything possible, and that, largely thanks to the special priority status of this case, we have access to all the resources and man power necessary." Jack took the frazzled man by the elbow and stirred him toward a small, glass-walled private space allocated to them courtesy of LaGuardia management.

The great man was short. Not so much that it would have served as an impediment in his life, but enough to be a surprise. For some reason Jack expected Mr. Stevens-Newberg to be taller, broader in shoulders, and more imposing. He was also far less impeccably attired as his position, his status, his home, and his wife would have indicated. He was clearly distressed and his suit reflected that: wrinkles and creases were prominent, even for an outfit that just completed trans-Atlantic flight.

He allowed himself to be lead to the room, and settled in a plastic airport chair with discomfort apparent in someone used to much more comfortable accommodations. His arms moved uncertainly as if in search of cushy armrests, and he finally let them drop, palms on his knees, fingers curled into semi-fists.

"Mr. Stevens-Newberg, we apologize for meeting you here in this way, but time is important."

"Of course. I understand. . . . Do I need my attorney?"

Jack and Sam were taken aback: "Why would you need an attorney?"

The man gave a defeated sigh.

"You are probably aware that my company is being investigated. Some of your colleagues confiscated a lot of documents. It got out, somehow, and mother. . . . Mother doesn't understand. . . . Anyway, isn't it why you are here? Because you think her disappearance has something to do with it?"

"At this point, sir, we have no definite theories. It is certainly a concern, and - I won't lie to you - it has crossed out minds. At this point we are following all and any leads, and we need to ask you some questions, none of which would require the presence of your attorney. However, if you'd feel more comfortable. . . ."

The man shook his head. "It's all right. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I've gotten used to the FBI asking me questions lately, as well as the presence of various lawyers. Please, if it'll help, ask me anything you think you need to know."

Sam flipped her little note book open. "Mr. Stevens-Newberg, your phone records indicate that you and your mother spoke for quite some time, several times yesterday. Can you tell us what that was about?"

The man fidgeted with the hem of his jacket and Jack suddenly got a flash of a child he must have been: fussy, insecure, apprehensive of others, and evasive even when there was no need to be.

"Mother called. Three times. The first two were about the company. I don't know how she found out. I understand that Federal probes, much like Grand Jury inquiries, are sealed. She is still on the Board, of course, but mostly in honorary capacity. She has turned over all the business side to me some years ago."

"Found out about the investigation, you mean?"

"Yes, that, and the alleged fraud. I've been informed that the charges are soon to be filed. 'Anti-Trust' and numerous counts of embezzlement. I say alleged, because, really - and you must believe me on this - it is all a gigantic mistake. I have made some bad choices hiring some people. . . ."

"Mr. Stevens-Newberg, this is not our area, and, honestly, not the time to talk about it. What did your mother say?"

"She was furious. Mother can be so rigid sometimes. She is old generation, and, in many ways, the business operations these days are far beyond her comprehension."

Sam raised her eyebrows: "That's not what we've been led to believe. Your mother, as recently as four years ago, was the head of the company, and a very successful one at that. Surely, the business hasn't changed _that _much in four years?"

Mr. Stevens-Newberg fussed some more. "A lot can change in four years, believe me."

"The management certainly has. As did some business practices." Sam said it as an aside, but the shot has gone home.

"Are you implying I am not qualified to lead the company? That it's all my fault?"

"_I _am not implying anything. I am looking at the data and the implication seems to be right there." Sam used her most innocent voice.

"Mr. Stevens-Newberg," Jack interceded, claiming the aggrieved man's attention, "like I said, the company and its management is not our concern. We need to find your mother, and for that, we need to know everything she did yesterday, and, possibly, before. You say that the first two times she called about the company. Why did she call twice about that?"

His eyes darted around, their expression genuinely miserable: "I hung up on her the first time. . . . She was very angry when she called, and I couldn't talk in that tone. I told her she was overreacting, but that just set her off even more."

"Is she prone to overreaction?"

"Ah, no, not exactly. Not usually. Normally, she is more than fair, but, like I said, she doesn't allow for the differences. . . . Agent Malone, I love my mother, and I fully appreciate her brilliance. I do. I am not a fool, and I have always known that following in my parents' footsteps would be, to put it mildly, a challenge. I can deal with challenges, but the expectations that are placed upon me are sometimes too daunting. I wish I was as incredibly apt as my mother to grasp the big picture, but wishing does not get it done. So, I had to get help, and if that help turned out to be my undoing, surely it wasn't entirely my fault! That is what mother failed to understand. . . . All my life I am afraid of disappointing her. And I seem to do nothing _but _disappoint her."

It was a well-coached self-rationalization, and Jack, with his knowledge of psychology, didn't fail to pick up on that. The question was, though, whether Mr. Stevens-Newberg used it as some sort of an emotional alibi either for his mother's disappearance or his company's fraudulent practices.

As it was, something akin to pity stirred in Jack's heart. Trying to live up to your parents' expectations was a predicament familiar to him. His entire stint in the Army was a testament to that. Jack pushed the pity aside. This man, pitiful though he may be, was not the one in need of a rescue. Not Jack's kind of rescue, anyway.

"You didn't care for her tone, so you hung up on your mother," Sam continued the questioning, undisturbed by this man's thinly veiled plea for sympathy. "She called you back right away, it seems. Did she, in the course of any of those conversations, mention - or threaten - a plan to leave? To go somewhere and not come to your daughter's wedding?"

"No! She wouldn't do that! Mother - though she can be as tough as nails - is not manipulative. She'd never try to blackmail anyone emotionally. And she certainly wouldn't do it to her grandchildren. It's not their fault."

"I see. So, when your granddaughter called you this morning and told you your mother was missing, why did you dismissed her concern in such an offhand manner?"

The man shrugged uncomfortably. "It's Allie. She fusses, and her imagination runs away with her sometimes. . . . And I didn't dismiss it offhand. I called Coco. My wife assured me that mother was going to the Hamptons, and if she changed her mind or stopped somewhere on her way, then it is her prerogative. My mother, Agent Spade, is an independent and sometimes unpredictable woman. She was upset. She may have gone to visit an old friend, or a place of sentiment. The fact that she hadn't informed us of her decision did not necessarily mean that she would not have done so later. In short, I didn't believe that there was cause for concern. Not during Allie's initial alarm. . . . Partly because of mother's third call yesterday, I must add."

"Yes, that third call. You said the first two were about the company. But the third one wasn't?"

"No. It came in later. It must have been just after 3 o'clock in New York. It was a little after 10 in Paris. The first two, as you know, were made in the morning. She was furious, but a lot calmer than when she first called. This one was about the wedding. Something to do with the guest list. I honestly didn't listen very carefully. See, I have already gone to bed, and I had a few drinks to ease my headache. . . . It has been a difficult day. Mother's voice was icy. I know, when she gets like that, the best thing to do is let her talk it out and not contradict. She talked, she reviled Coco, and she said something about the 'last straw.' You've got to understand, I try to not position myself in the middle, between my wife and my mother."

"But you _are _in the middle," noted Jack, somewhat bemused. "You are so position by the very definition of these relationships. What you are saying is that you tried not to mediate them."

"Exactly. Coco is high-strung. Well-meaning, but high-strung. And a bit intimidated by my mother. Then again, who isn't? And mother, excellent though her behavior has always been toward my wife, sometimes does not make allowances for the difference in character, perspective, or understanding."

"Mr. Stevens-Newberg, we already have an idea that the two women did not exactly like each other. What we need to know is this: did your mother tell you she was going to talk to your wife?"

"At the end, yes. She demanded I call Coco and make her invite some friend of hers to the wedding. Her exact words were: 'You owe me at least that much!' Implication being, I have disappointed her in every other way. I suppose I do, owe her a lot. But by that time I was a little drunk, and tired, and I just couldn't handle any more confrontations that day. And calling my wife and demanding she revise the guest list was surely a way to yet another confrontation. So, I said no."

"What did your mother say?"

"She didn't say much." He inhaled a deep breath - a sound between a sigh and a sob. "She informed me that, as always, she would have to straighten things out herself. I took it to mean, she was going over to our place to confront Coco. . . . You see, this is why, when Allie called this morning and told me mother was missing, I didn't take it seriously. I knew they would have come to blows yesterday, and mother would want to go somewhere to be away from all of us for a while. I just didn't think she'd disappear altogether. . . . Did I do wrong?"

Once again, a child was asking this question. A 51-year-old child in a wrinkled $2,000 handmade suit and an expression of utter bewilderment in his eyes.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Penny for your thoughts," Danny stole a glance at Vivian. They were driving downtown after dropping Allie off at her Upper East Side doorstep.

Vivan smiled and shook her head: "Nothing, really. I was thinking about Allie's observations on her family and suddenly realizing how much I've missed mine."

Danny was surprised.

"Missed them? Did they go somewhere?"

"No, but it feels like _I _did. I've been working too many hours lately, and may be the cases are finally getting to me, but I've been feeling tired for a while now. I hardly have time for Reggie these days, and none at all for Marcus, it seems. . . . We had an argument this morning."

"You and Marcus? What about?"

"About my work and my general condition. I've been feeling tired, like I said, and a bit down. I have this flu that I can't seem to shake. That is, the flu-like symptoms are gone, but it left me wiped, weakened, and half-asleep most of the time. Marcus wants me to take some time off to go see a doctor, may be."

"You should!" Danny said vehemently. "You _have _been working too hard. And when was the last time you took a vacation?"

"Vacation? What's that?" Vivan smiled at him with mock compassion: "Isn't it the event where you go to the airport, wait for the boarding to be announced, and then drive back to the City for another case?"

Danny gave a sad little laugh. "It seems to be that for me. But, seriously, it doesn't have to be like that for you, Viv. I have no family and very few responsibilities outside work. They can't drag you back with the same ease and justification."

"They can, if they know I want to advance at some point." Viv paused and Danny didn't contradict: he knew well how much of a sore point the Promotion That Didn't Happen still was with her.

"Viv," he finally said, "You are entitled to a vacation once in a while. Or to some down time. No one, not even the stingiest boss of them all, is going to hold the fact that you have a life against you."

"I would like to believe that, and that's just what Marcus said this morning. He thinks I do this so I can prove a point. I don't. I'm over the whole mess. I just don't want the next opportunity to pass me by. . . . And I am not at all confused as to where my priorities are. The job - though I love it - doesn't come close to Reggie and my husband. I was trying to explain that to him."

"Are things so bad you have to explain this?"

"Oh, Danny. . . . Families . . . they fight without a slightest provocation sometimes. Doesn't mean things are bad. Just means that being too close to someone can distort perspective. . . . Marcus and I are always honest with each other - one of the best things about our marriage. And the rest of it. . . . Reggie can be a pain: he is marking his teenage years with a capital T. But I know he loves me and his father, and that, underneath all that rebellion he feels he has to engage in, he'd never try to deliberately hurt us. We did this much, Marcus and I: we raised him to know we love him. As to this morning's fight, Marcus cares deeply, and I can get angry all I want, but I know that his accusations stem from concern and fear for my well-being."

"More's the reason to take it easy for a while, Viv. Truly, you should! You husband is not the only one who's been noticing that you are more tired lately, and he is not the only one worried that, perhaps, the events of last year took their toll on you."

Vivan smiled half defiantly, half affectionately: "Don't you start with me! I can't fight this battle on two fronts. I ended up promising Marcus faithfully to go see a doctor. After that, may be I'll even request a vacation. Who knows? I may make it all the way to the boarding gate!"

Danny laughed somewhat relieved.

"What about your family?" Vivian continued unexpectedly. "How's that going?"

Danny looked up in surprise: "What family?"

"Come on, you know I mean your brother and his kid."

"Oh, them. . . . A brother, whom until recently, I haven't seen in more than a decade, and whom, incidentally, I haven't considered my 'family' for way longer than that. A nephew, of whose existence I new nothing and around whom I feel nine kinds of awkward. _That _family. . . . Believe me, I feel much more invested in Reggie and Jack's girls than I am in Nicky."

"Well, that's understandable. It was a bit of a shock. But, Danny, you don't get invested unless you invest. Time, and patience, and forgiveness. It's bound to get better ."

Danny shrugged uncomfortably. "Is it? I wonder if my relationship with Raphie, and, by extension, with Nicky, is way beyond repair of time and patience. And I won't even touch forgiveness. That's too loaded an issue. . . . Too much has happened, and too much time has passed, Viv. I take one look at my brother and, suddenly, I am 13 again, and scared out of my mind, because I am about to go and nock over a liquor store at Raphie's and his drug buddies' urging."

"You are definitely not that kid anymore. . . ."

"I know that. Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally, though. . . . Let's just say that this kid keeps visiting me every time I even think of Raphie now. I was doing well, Viv. I even managed to forget about my brother's existence for a while. But here he is again, and it's as if nothing has changed."

"Well, _he _has changed, hasn't he? Didn't you tell me he was working in some car-repair business, supporting his family, trying to reconnect with you?"

"He is trying, I'll give him that. It's just . . . I can't shake the feeling that we've been through this many times before. He'd promise to change, he'd try to change, and he'd end up right where he started. And I just can't go through that again. I just can't."

"But people do change, sometimes. Even addicts. You did."

"You mean I've got it under control. I don't know about any profound changes. . . . Bottom line is, I can't hope, I can't expect anything, and I can't let him take the kind of emotional control over me that I once allowed him to have. I want to hope for the best, I just don't believe it."

Vivian asked, perplexed: "Why did you testify for him at his parole hearing, then?"

Danny smiled ruefully: "He guilted me into it. . . . I do owe him something, Viv. That was me paying my debt. . . . He invited me to this big 'Coming Out' party after his release. It was an interesting shindig. His fiancée, Nicky, his fiancée's brother - Raphie's current employer, who owns the body shop they work at - brother's wife with two toddlers, and me. They invited Raphie's parole officer, but he demurred. It was, in a word, painful. A group of people connected by circumstances, celebrating something that is tainted by definition, and trying desperately to act and feel like a family. I stayed as short a while as possible within the bounds of polite behavior, and ran like hell home."

Vivan sighed: "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"It's OK. You care, and I don't mind telling you this. . . . Me and Raphie, we were strangers long before his first stint in Juvie. We are worse than that now: strangers united by blood - most of it bad - and obligations."

"Are you going to see him at all, then?"

"Well, that's what _obligations_ imply, Viv. Yes, I will see him, mostly for Sylvia's and Nicky's sake. A few times a year, for holidays and such. Nicky's birthday is coming up in February. I've been invited."

"I can hear the enthusiasm in your voice," Vivan said sardonically.

"Yeah, I can't wait!"


	8. Chapter 8

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**Thank you to all the kind and generous people who reviewed. I appreciate each and every one of you. I also feel compelled to apologize to every person who now has an image of Martin in Ruby Slippers stuck in their head. LOL. **

Martin looked around the small kitchen, warming his hands on the cup of tea Mrs. Argello pressed on him. All the way to Brooklyn he tried to find the words to coach the questions in, so that they would convey the urgency and the need for the kind of personal information people are usually reluctant to part with, and, at the same time, would assuage any fears and apprehensions Frank's wife might feel on her husband's behalf.

He failed to find the words during his drive, and was now looking around in hopes of gleaning an inspiration from the warm, yellow walls, apple-green crockery displayed on the top of the fridge, an ornate crucifix by the window, or a shelf-full of "Precious Moments" collectible figurines.

"I don't understand," said Mrs. Argello, sitting down opposite Martin, and, for just a second, reminding him of Camilla Stevens-Newberg. The resemblance ended with the words, though: the tone was completely different, as much as the woman uttering them was different from the Mighty Camilla.

Mrs. Argello was all round softness where Camilla was angles, and her appearance of agelessness came from a completely different source. She was clearly of the Italian descent: her hair, the color of salt and pepper, was at odds with her large, dark, animated eyes. She could have been an early-graying 40-something, or a very youthful late 60s. Martin knew for a fact that she was 54, but he wouldn't have been able to establish that just by looking at her.

Mrs. Argello's tone was conversational and genuinely perplexed: "I don't understand why you are here."

"Ma'am, we didn't mean to alarm you unduly, and, please, don't think that we, at this point, believe that something actually happened to Mr. Argello. We also don't want you to think that, just because the case involves a wealthy and powerful woman, we are any less concerned with your husband's disappearance."

Mrs. Argello smiled at Martin kindly, as if it was he who needed reassurance.

"I know, but I still don't understand. I thought that was all resolved."

"What was resolved?"

"Frank's whereabouts, and Mrs. Stevens-Newberg's."

"No. Why would you think that?"

"Because he called."

"Who called?" Martin was starting to feel like a clue-less player in a game of 20 questions. Somehow they were talking at cross-purposes.

Mrs. Argello indicated the phone on a small table in the corner: "Frank. He called about an hour before you arrived. He said he is fine." She smiled a serene smile.

"Wait, your husband just called? From where?"

"Well, first I thought he said he was at the Hamptons, but then I told him that you guys were looking for him and the old lady everywhere, and that you didn't find them at the Hamptons, and he explained that they didn't actually go there, and that I shouldn't worry. That he'll straighten it all out. . . . Didn't he call you? I gave him the number your other agent gave me when he first called. I thought Frank would have contacted someone."

"No," Martin said slowly, "I don't think he did. I would have been informed by now. . . . Where did he say he was calling from exactly?"

"Eh, he didn't. I took it to mean they were somewhere on the road. It happens sometimes, with his job, you know. People change their plans, he ends up driving them a lot farther than first intended. Stevens-Newbergs tip very well, and the old lady treats him with real respect, so, you see, if she occasionally wants to go driving aimlessly, neither of us is going to complain. It doesn't happen too often and they usually pay double for that. We are saving up." She beamed at Martin. "Once Frank retires, we are moving to California. Our daughter lives in Sacramento."

"Mrs. Argello," Martin said slowly, getting out his note pad, "please tell me exactly what your husband said."

"Uh, OK," she wrinkled her forehead in concentration, "first he said that he was calling as promised. Like I told your other agent, Frank called me last night to tell me he was driving the old lady to the Hamptons, and that he'd call today. Well, that was him calling."

"And he said he was at the Hamptons?"

"Honestly? I don't remember, because I was so relieved to hear from him, what with all the ruckus that got me thinking all sorts of bad things. . . . He said he was checking in, and he was going to be there for a few days - at least through the next weekend - and he'd let me know later when he'll be back. And then I asked where _there_ was, and told him you were looking for him. And he got all sorta quiet, and then said not to worry, and that they weren't at the Hamptons, but that everything was all right, and that he'll get it straightened out. So, I gave him the phone number and that was that."

"He definitely said 'they'?"

"Well, no. . . . Honestly, agent Fitzerald, all I heard was 'he is safe and well' and 'not to worry.' But, surely, the old lady is with him. Where else would she be?"

That was indeed the question, Martin thought with a growing exasperation. The yellow walls were closing in on him, and those sickeningly sweet Precious Moments figurines were mocking him from the shelves.

"That was that, Mrs. Argello? Your husband didn't sound to you at all concerned, or upset, or agitated in any way?"

"Well, sure he got agitated once he heard the FBI was looking, but not before that, no. He was kinda cheerful, actually. He said that he got paid really well for this one, and that we actually may be able to move sooner."

"And you didn't press for any specific details?"

"Like what?"

"Like his exact location, whether Mrs. Stevens-Newberg was all right, why the change of plans. . . ."

"No," the woman smiled at Martin in half-guilty explanation, "Frank doesn't like to talk about his job all that much. And he said everything was OK. He said he'd tell me all about it when he gets home. I trust him. We've been married a long time, Agent Fitzgerald. I suppose, it may seem odd to an outsider, but we've got a way with us, a habit, if you will. I don't pry where I don't need to, and he doesn't bring his work problems home."

Martin walked briskly to his car, dialing Jack's number on his cell and marveling at the gentle selfishness of a human mind that would rather settle into a routine of blissful ignorance than venture anything potentially damaging or even remotely upsetting.

xxxxx

"He called? From where?" Jack gave Sam a sign, pressing his phone tightly to his ear, trying to block the airport noise. They were on their way out to the parking lot, having just parted with Mr. Stevens-Newberg. A much reinvigorated Mr. Stevens-Newberg, after a rather one-sided phone conversation with his wife, not to mention a timely appearance by his lawyer.

Jack snapped the phone shut and turned to Sam: "What do you know? The driver contacted his wife. She, inexplicably, didn't ask where he was calling from, but it's definitely not the Hamptons. We need to get back to the office and trace the call." He started his energetic walk down the corridor, Sam falling into a rapid step beside him.

"He called? Was he alone? Is Mrs. Stevens-Newberg with him?"

"Mrs. Argello failed to ask that, too."

"Wow. How do you not. . . ?"

"Oh, who knows, Sam! People are weird, and I, for one, find life to be a lot easier ever since I've accepted that fact."

Sam laughed and shook her head: "I wish I could accept it with such ease. Instead, I keep searching for some semblance of logic."

"And get frustrated in the process, I noticed." Jack looked at her thoughtfully and she responded to the implication: "What do you mean?"

"Well, you came down a tad too strong on poor Junior."

"Did I?"

"You did"

"So I did. A little. May be I pressed a wee too much, but let me tell you, the guy _needed _pressing!"

Jack smiled and she rushed to explain:

"It's not my rumored intolerance toward men. It's not! It's this _particular _man. I can't make out whether he is playing us or he really does have a personality of a wet Q-tip."

"That's funny."

"No, it's sad, actually. I can see why Mrs. Stevens-Newberg felt like a failure. All that effort, all that excellent example, all that education, and it produces this?"

"They say Nature rests on the next generation."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that often bright, brilliant, strong people have wet Q-tips for children, and no amount of leading by example or education can fix that. Nature likes balance, and, sometimes, when it gives generously in one quarter, it compensates somewhere else. Good news is, the grandkids tend to fair much better. Danny and Viv tell me the youngest granddaughter is a fighter and a delight."

Sam bit her lower lip and shook her head. "It's an interesting theory, Jack, and I sincerely wish someone would have applied it to our current Commander and Chief - to say nothing of his little brother - but depleted genetics is only part of the problem in most cases. And, anyway, shouldn't this theory scare you?"

Jack looked at her with a genuine surprise. "Why?"

"Your girls. Aren't you worried about Nature compensating for you?" Sam said it with a smile that was letting him know she was joking. Jack smiled back:

"First, thank you for the implication of my supposed brilliance. Secondly, no, I have no cause to worry about Hanna or Kate. I am already well aware of the strength of their personalities, not to mention, talents. Especially Hanna's. I've been introduced to some of her writing lately, and, let's just say I am disturbed by its maturity and flow. . . . God, they are growing so fast, and - no doubt about it - leaving me behind."

The sadness in Jack's voice was only partly due to the metaphorical meaning of the statement. Sam knew well how literal that "leaving behind" sentiment was.

"I'm sorry, Jack." She touched his sleeve, slightly above the elbow, a soothing and tentative gesture - half apology, half fortification.

"It's OK. Can't be helped. At least I don't have to worry about the strength of their characters. Hanna, in particular, can give the entire female contingent of the Stevens-Newberg clan the run for their money when it comes to stubbornness or getting her own way. And Kate is getting there, too. And not by throwing tantrums, mind you, but by being smart and persistent." Jack's smile was a happy if sheepish one this time.

"Well, then, you know you can be proud," Sam let go of his sleeve slowly, "they got it from you."

xxxxxx

The group was once again gathered around the conference table. It was dark outside, moonless January night stealing in and threatening to snuff out hope.

But they weren't hopeless: for the first time in this investigation they had a tangible lead. Martin bit into his breakfast burrito. It was a long way 'till breakfast, but, with this job, one never knew exactly when the next meal would be feasible, and for the rest of the agents the sight of Martin eating was a familiar and comforting one. Danny once joked that if there ever came a time when Martin would not be able to eat, then it would mean things were _really _bad.

"Frank's phone call came from Atlantic City." Martin leaned back into his chair. "That gels, you know: Frank's financials show a history of gambling, some of it fairly recent. I guess all that saving up for the retirement to California isn't going as fast as Mrs. Argello believes. Frank has been putting some of the money into a separate account. A _discretionary _one, I bet. I also bet that the Mrs. doesn't know anything about it. They have a 'don't ask, don't tell' marital policy. _She_ isn't asking, and _he_ sure isn't telling."

Vivian rolled her eyes. "Yes, that always works out well."

Jack suppressed a smile and asked Martin: "Do we have a specific location of the call?"

"Trump Taj Mahal, lobby pay phone. Which is good, because there are cameras everywhere in the casinos. And if we are lucky, he is staying there, as well."

Sam shook her head. "I'm sorry, am I the only one who's having trouble picturing Mrs. Stevens-Newberg playing dollar slots?"

Danny chimed in: "I was about to say. Now _way _is she chilling on the Boardwalk, either. She simply isn't the type. According to Allie, she was overwhelmed by the bustle of the wedding prep at the Hamptons. It would defy reason for her to go to _Atlantic City_, of all the bustling places, to relax and forget. I honestly don't think she is with him."

Jack got up, took a sip of his coffee, and slammed the folder in front of him shut.

"OK, no need for us to speculate further. Right now, we wait. Atlantic City PD can handle the surveillance tapes and the Hotel records, as well as check for any signs of an elderly upper class lady. They'll ship Frank here when, and if, they locate him. If not, then we'll go there tomorrow and look for more leads. In the meantime, you all need to go home and get some sleep. I want you back here bright and early. Sam and I will sit down with that White Collar guy, just in case the AC lead takes us nowhere. Danny, Viv: for the same reason to you will fall the thankless task of re-interviewing Mrs. Stevens-Newberg the Younger. With her lawyer, if she insists, but in the view of what her husband told us, it still looks like whatever precipitated the old lady's disappearance started at that house. Martin, you keep on Frank's financials. Gambling habit doesn't smell right. And you may have to talk to his wife again."

"Sure," Martin nodded, "she may have been over exaggerating that unconcerned cheerfulness of hers. Her fearsome Precious Moments collection not withstanding, nobody is that sweet or that clueless."


	9. Chapter 9

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**I am very grateful to all who commented. Jera, you got me misty-eyed for a moment. Actually, all the reviews did. Thank you, every one of you:)**

xxxxx

"Did I hear correctly? Our wandering chauffeur is in the building?"

Danny exited the elevator and flashed a bright smile at Sam. It was too bright a smile for anyone forced to terminate sleep to be at the office at 6:45 on a Monday morning, and Samantha guessed that Danny hadn't gone to bed at all. Not a big surprise with Danny. He seemed to have subsisted on very little sleep and fewer meals than an average person.

"Yep, he is here. Signed, sealed, and delivered by the good men and women of the Atlantic City Police Department. He is sulking in the interrogation room."

"What's he saying?"

"He isn't saying much of anything. He asked for a lawyer - smart man - and he's been sipping on a Cherry soda ever since. Jack gave him a phone and a soda in exchange for a definite 'no' on the question of whether Mrs. Stevens-Newberg went with him to the Atlantic City. More than that we couldn't get out. I am guessing someone's gotten to him before we did, and I also have a pretty good idea as to who it was. Frank, it appears, has made a phone call from the same pay phone he used to call his wife, right after he called her. You'd think he would have contacted us, considering the information and the number he received from her, but no. The call went out to a certain tastefully-understated home on the Upper East Side. Suffice it to say that the lawyer we are now so anxiously awaiting is from the esteemed firm of Peabody Morgan. Ring any bells?"

Danny's smile gotten even broader, though it lost almost all of its mirth: "Not _the_ honorable Leonard Morgan of Peabody Morgan? Darn it! I knew I should have worn my 'special occasions' tie today!"

Sam chuckled: "The yellow one with brown specks? I'm glad you didn't. We don't want to dazzle the Stevens-Newberg lawyer, we want to subdue him."

"Now, is it me, or does it seem suspicious that the concerned family of the missing lady is providing their employee - the one who can shed light on her very disappearance - with an attorney?"

"Suspicious, odd, and suspiciously and oddly expected." Sam shrugged - a gesture infused with sarcasm and resignation. "I have a distinct impression that our dear Coco is running this show, and she'd be damned if one of 'the help' says something unedited."

Danny raised his eyebrows. "This is bizarre! Doesn't she get that all this maneuvering just makes her look suspicious?"

"I honestly don't think she cares. At least I don't think she believes we can seriously suspect her, or anyone in her family, of anything. She cares about the family's public image, though, and that's where the damage control comes in."

"That figures," Danny made a face indicating disgust. "I wonder what Mr. Stevens-Newberg is thinking."

"He is probably thinking that in his wife he found the mommy he always wanted, and that he better listen to her. He craves being told what to do, and, I bet, he gets indulged in that at home. The guy is totally whipped."

"I don't know, Sam. He may be whipped, and, in fact, probably is, but he may also genuinely love his wife. Allie thinks so, and she is a very astute observer."

Sam nodded acknowledgment as her cell phone beeped. She listened to a short message on the other end and smiled up at Danny.

"That's Jack. The lawyer is here. Wanna go observe the circus?"

"Hell, yeah. You know, jokes aside, I am really worried about the old lady. I feel like I know her by now, and it seems to me, that, if she was able to, she would have contacted someone already."

Again, Sam acknowledged this with a nod.

xxxxxx

Frank Argello, a large, graying man in brown jacket, fidgeted with his hands and finally settled on thrusting them into his pockets. He was clearly uncomfortable. By contrast, Stevens-Newberg family attorney Leonard Morgan was all business and practiced ease. Armed with an imposing metal briefcase, several pens, two manila folders and severe, wire-rimmed glasses, the Man of the Law was telegraphing to the agents that there will be no intimidating, coercing, or otherwise confusing of anybody here today.

Jack, suppressing a smile, shot a meaningful glance at Martin.

Before Martin could ask any questions, though, Frank, finally overcome by the situation, announced to the agents: "I don't know anything!"

Danny and Sam, looking on from behind the glass outside the room, shook their heads in unison.

"Now, _that's_ what I call an impressive preemptive strike!" Said Danny.

"Eloquent man, Mr. Argello," concurred Sam with the same sarcasm in her voice.

"Sir," Martin smiled at the agitated chauffeur affably, "we haven't asked you anything yet."

"I know what you're thinking! I didn't do nothing!"

The stalwart lawyer put a calming hand on Frank's shoulder, shooting a warning glance at the agents at the same time.

"What my client means is that he would gladly answer any questions you deem necessary to ask, but he wants to stress that he has no knowledge of Mrs. Stevens-Newberg's whereabouts, nor is he responsible for her disappearance in any way."

"Wow. Way to parse a simple statement! All I heard was 'I didn't do nothing,' but, clearly, I don't have a fancy Harvard Law degree. They _so _didn't give us a course in that at the lowly NYU!" Danny's mock awe made Sam smile again.

Visibly less amused was Jack, who gave the lawyer his patented fiery stare and turned to Martin, nodding at him to proceed.

"Mr. Argello, we know that you drove Mrs. Stevens-Newberg to her son's house after 5 p.m. Saturday afternoon. We know that you waited for her outside that house until just after 7 p.m. What we don't know is where you took her later and why. You called your wife soon after 7 and informed her that you were driving your employer to the Hamptons and were likely to remain there for some time. Now, everybody here knows that's not what happened. Care to enlighten us?"

Frank shifted in his seat. "You make it sound like I did something! I didn't! She gave me time off, all right? She wanted to go off on her own. I took her to the station, and then I parked the limo in the garage and went to Atlantic City."

Jack raised an eyebrow: "That's not what you told your wife."

"You always tell your wife everything?"

Jack wisely chose to treat this question as rhetorical.

The man shifted again, discomfort so apparent on his face that Martin briefly wondered if Frank suffered from hemorrhoids. "Look, I am not a bad husband. I don't cheat on my wife, I don't drink, and I help around the house. So, if sometimes an unscheduled time off falls into my lap, I think I am entitled to treat myself to a day or two of playing the tables, and I don't see why I should trouble my wife with the details!"

"Some details, Mr. Argello," Martin picked up the thread. "There are seems to be a lot you are not troubling your wife with. When you were picked up, you had close to $4,000 on you. In cash. Your Hotel bill was nearing $300 and you left almost $500 at the tables in the casino. That, together, tells us you had something like $5,000 to indulge yourself with. Now, I checked your financials very thoroughly, and there were no recent withdrawals of any amounts even close to $5,000 from any of your accounts. Not even your personal one, the one you also don't trouble your wife with. Where did you get the money for this mini-vacation?"

"The lady gave it to me, all right?" Frank's face was read now, but it was difficult to say whether he was afraid, angry, or indignant about the implication.

"Why did she give it to you?" Jack's tone was even and conversationally soothing.

"As a bonus, may be. I don't know!"

"That's some bonus, Mr. Argello. And for no apparent reason, too. It's not the holidays, it's not your birthday, your anniversary, or any known red day what so ever."

"So? She just gave it to me. Along with the time off. She's generous like that!"

"You mean she is in the habit of slipping you a thousand or so on a regular basis?"

"Well, no. . . . But, I guess she was going away and all. . . . May be she isn't coming back, and my job with her is over. May be she gave me that as a parting gift!" He said it triumphantly, as if solving a problem.

"Did she tell you she wasn't coming back? Or did you just infer that?"

"No. She didn't tell me much of anything. . . ."

"Look," the honorable Leonard Morgan chimed in with a cool and detached voice, "my client has already answered your direct questions. Now you are just asking him to speculate, and we can't have that."

"No, we certainly can't! Parish the thought!" Jack's voice was only a tad sarcastic. "Mr. Argello, speculations aside, let's go back to Saturday evening. You said you took her to a station. Which station?"

"Eh, Grand Central?" Frank suddenly sounded unsure.

"You are asking me?"

"No. I mean, it was Grand Central."

"Where was she going?"

"I don't know, she just told me to drop her off at the main entrance. Which I did."

"What time was that?"

"Eh. . . . About 8? Yeah, 8, may be a little later."

"Are you sure she didn't ask you to take her home first?"

"I'm sure. Why?"

"Well, your employer suddenly tells you to take her to a train station. Even without knowing the details, it's obvious she intends to take a train somewhere. I mean, if she was picking someone up, it stands to reason she would have asked you to wait or pick her and that someone up later. Therefore, if she was going somewhere, it didn't occur to you to wonder why she wouldn't stop at home and pack a thing or two? A toothbrush, may be, or a change of clothes?"

Frank shrugged. "May be she wasn't going for long."

"Why then did she give you all that time off?"

"May be she was late for a train and didn't have time to pack. She can get a toothbrush anywhere!"

"That she can, but unless she had a rather pressing appointment somewhere - and we are almost certain that she didn't - missing a train from the Grand Central is not a disaster one might think should be avoided at all costs. Trains from that particular station only go as far as Connecticut, and they are scheduled at half-hour intervals. An hour, at most, for some destinations. Hardly worth the rush and forgoing the packing."

"You are doing it again, Agent Malone," the attorney's voice sounded bored, but full of warning non the less. "You are asking my client to account for his employer's actions. He neither can nor should do that."

Frank interrupted his lawyer before Jack or Martin had a chance to respond: "Look! I don't pry into my employers personal plans. If they want to tell me, fine, but otherwise, I keep my mouth shut. She was upset, all right? I could tell that. But I didn't ask, and it's not like Mrs. Stevens-Newberg would ever bitch to a chauffeur. I drove her there, we said good-bye, she gave me the money and the time off, and that's the end of it! I took the limo to the garage, East 86th and Lexington. And I took a bus to Atlantic City. I'd give you the ticket stub, but I threw it away! I don't know what else you can want from me."

Martin and Jack looked at each other and got up.

"OK, Mr. Argello, thank you for your cooperation," Jack even managed to sound sincere, with only a hint of sarcasm. "We'll be in touch."

xxxxx

"All right, let's run it," Jack looked around the table, where most of his troops gathered once more. "We need to check the Grand Central. Surveillance, ticket sales, possible eye witnesses. We've got the people, but that doesn't mean we'll have results."

"Yeah, it's literally the Grand Central Station," mused Sam, "it could take us, oh, until mid-July to collect and process all the possible leads."

"Let's not be pessimistic. If we are lucky, we will be done with it by April!" Vivian faked enthusiasm.

They all laughed, but the levity was forced. If the driver's story checked out, they were left with no real leads and an elderly lady, whose trail was rapidly growing cold, out there somewhere in a very possibly harmful or dire situation.

"Jack," Martin raised his head from the notes he was rereading, "something here doesn't seem right." He indicated the notes, "I mean, before we do the grand tour of the Grand Central, we should look at Frank much more carefully."

He glanced around the table. No one was interrupting, and, encouraged to proceed, Martin went on: "Why did Frank, when informed of our search by his wife, instead of contacting us, called the Stevens-Newbergs? He never really did answer that."

Jack shrugged: "To see if the old lady checked in? To get a lawyer?"

"Why? Surely, if his employer checked in with her family, he could have gotten this information from us. Why not hurry and clear himself? Why call them first? He isn't a family, he worked almost exclusively for the old lady. Why did he think Mrs. Stevens-Newberg the Younger would bother to advice him either way, let alone provide him with an attorney? Why did he even think he would need an attorney, if, as he so eloquently put it, he 'hasn't done nothing'?"

"Knee-jerk reaction. Could be, you know. Those 'old school' service types always consider their employers first. They also tend to think the authorities are out to screw them. He probably heard 'FBI' and got scared, regardless of his guilt or innocence. That doesn't prove anything."

"May be not, but it raises my red flags. And then there's the matter of $5,000. He says the old lady gave it to him, but where did _she _get it?"

"Ah, Martin, she is loaded," Vivian pointed out.

"I know, and she is also an astute business woman and not at all one of those old fogies who keep large wads of cash rolled up in their sock drawers. She has bank accounts, investments, bonds, and annuities. She conducts her shopping almost entirely with her Platinum American Express. She has a check book at home. She has an ATM card. All of which we checked and did not come up with any large withdrawals lately. Or any withdrawals since last Friday. At all. So, my question remains: where did she get $5,000 to casually hand over to Frank on a whim? I highly doubt she just happened to have carried it around in her clutch purse for months and months."

"She doesn't have a safe at home?" Asked Jack.

"She does," answered Vivian, "but it's filled with two jewelry boxes, a folder with old photos, and a pack of yellowing letters tied with a ribbon, and it looks like it hasn't been opened in months. Clearly, it's a sentimental and not financial storage. No, Martin's right, she wasn't the type to have lots of cash at home or in her bag. She used the modern financial system well. She was part of it."

"Good point," Sam agreed, "something definitely doesn't add up here."

"Frank is either lying entirely or twisting something," Martin insisted.

Sam nodded. "Practically all of them do. Save for Allie, Mrs. Harriford, and, may be, the maid, everyone we talked to in the course of this investigation has either lied to us or didn't tell the whole truth. Mrs. Stevens-Newberg certainly tried her darnest to withhold information. Blake was evasive on some points. Mr. Stevens-Newberg was defensive to a fault and less than forthcoming. And Frank - I agree with Martin - is lying about something. We just don't know why the are doing it. Is this a conspiracy or do they all have something personal and completely unrelated to the matter at hand that they don't want us to find out? I mean, besides the Junior and his fraud investigation. It could be as innocent as that they are all extra reticent with the law enforcement, not being used to being questioned. Or, it could mean that they are all guilty of something incredibly sinister and are covering up for each other. And the maddening thing is that, unless we catch any of them in an outright lie, we can't do anything about it."

"Funny you should say that," Danny's voice made them all turn, as he approached the table, a folder and a phone in his hands. "One of the guys just got back to us. They checked the garage on East 86th and Lexington. There are records and the surveillance tapes. Our Frank does park the car there. He's got a permanent, prepaid spot. And here's the kicker: the security tape shows him parking the limo, like he mentioned, but guess what the time stamp says? 7: 48 p.m.! Now, I am not an expert, and I don't have his lifetime experience of chauffeuring, but I don't think even a man of Frank's impressive driving abilities could have made it all the way from the Upper East Side to the Grand Central Station and then back to 86th in roughly 45 minutes. In Manhattan traffic. Not to mention, he claims he dropped the lady off at the station _in the limo _around 8 p.m. Even if he is confused about the timing, it is still not enough time for him to have driven all the way to the Grand Central and back."

"And here it is," said Jack quietly.

"What?"

"An outright lie. Let's get him back here, shall we?"


	10. Chapter 10

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**Sorry for the delay. My real life has no consideration for my imaginary one. :)**

**Thanks go out once again to all those kind people who dropped a line and encouraged me to continue. **

xxxxx

"You lied to us, Mr. Argello," Martin stated the fact with an air of wearied surprise, "and that makes me sad. But that's nothing for you to be concerned about. What you need to worry about is Agent Malone here. He doesn't get sad when people lie to him, he gets cranky. And cranky Agent Malone is something you do _not _want to deal with, trust me on that."

Jack set motionless in his chair throughout Martin's speech, his face thoughtful and his hands very still on the top of the desk. He didn't even seem to blink, and yet, the already sweating chauffeur somehow got the impression that he wouldn't at all like to see this man cranky.

It was the formidable lawyer who replied first: "I would appreciate it if you didn't threaten my client."

"_I _would appreciate it if your client stopped wasting my time and impeding this investigation." Jack's statement was almost lazy in its delivery, but no one doubted its gravity.

"Look," Mr. Argello turned to Martin as the safest of the two interrogators, his eyes pleading something, "Look, I didn't lie _exactly_. I mean, I did say some things. . . . But it's not what you think!"

"It isn't?" Jack raised one lazy eyebrow. "We think you didn't take Mrs. Stevens-Newberg anywhere near Grand Central Station. You have been observed some time around 6:30 p.m. smoking in front of the Stevens-Newberg Upper East Side residence. We've been told that you helped your employer into the limo at, or a little after, 7 p.m. We know for a fact that you parked the said limo at the 86th Street Garage at 7:48 p.m. Alone. With Mrs. Stevens-Newberg nowhere in sight, and certainly not at the Grand Central, due to the sheer impossibility of you taking her there in such a short time. We also think that the money you said you received from the lady could not have come to you that way. I won't bore you with our reasoning, but let me tell you, Mr. Argello, that what we _think _is not at all good: you either covering for someone, or you did something to her. Either way, it does not work out well for you. So, I suggest you start talking. Fast."

Martin, who during Jack's speech was watching the driver carefully, couldn't help but feel sorry for the man: so pronounced was his discomfort and misery.

"I can't tell you," Frank looked around the table, shooting a sideways glance at the attorney, "I am between a rock and a hard place!"

"Mr. Argello, let me assure you that whatever difficulties you are having parting with information would seem like nothing at all compared to the real hard place you are headed for if you don't start cooperating now."

Leonard Morgan jumped in, once more faster than his client: "Again, I should point out. . . ."

"You know what you _should _do?" Jack interrupted conversationally, "You should start advising your client on the course of action that is beneficial to _him_, not to your other clients, Mr. Morgan. That's what you should do. Otherwise, it's a tricky conflict of interest. If _I_ were looking out for Mr. Argello here - an, in a way, I am - I would tell him to fire you and employ an attorney whose sole purpose would be to provide the best advise possible in _his _situation."

There was a short silence, broken at last by the harassed driver: "He should go."

Frank indicated the lawyer with a slight nod.

"Mr. Morgan, I think you've just been released from your duties."

The attorney looked at Frank with clear if restrained disfavor. "You are making a mistake. They want to interrogate you without an attorney so they can browbeat you into saying all sorts of things you may later regret. . . ."

"Mr. Morgan," Jack interrupted, "I don't believe you heard clearly: You. Have. Been. Dismissed. Stop talking and leave."

Mr. Morgan made a slow, deliberate, passive-aggressive show of leaving. He collected his folders and pens painstakingly, he opened the briefcase with a loud clank, and he spent several minutes arranging the pens and the folders inside it. At the door, he turned around and said, addressing Frank but looking directly at Jack:

"Just remember, that whatever information you give here can clearly be considered as given under duress. You don't have any legal representation. It will not stand in court!"

"Duly noted, sir. The exit is to your left." Jack gave the lawyer one of his more polite smiles that never failed to make the recipients feel as if they had just been stung.

xxxxx

"Cherry soda?" Martin asked not unkindly. Frank nodded, his demeanor thoroughly defeated, yet oddly relieved.

They were facing him - Jack and Martin - watching the man wage some kind of a struggle with himself.

Sam, who came in with the soda, whispered to them: "Viv called. She and Danny are on the standby at the court house. Judge Horton's in, they can get a warrant as soon as we give them a go."

"As soon as we know what kind of warrant and for which place," Martin whispered back. Jack kept looking at the driver, his gaze quizzical and steady.

"It wasn't what you think." Frank felt the point needed reiterating. "No one killed no one. It just happened, and whatever we did afterward, that's not even illegal. . . . At least, she said it wasn't."

No one interrupted him, and no one asked questions, so Frank, after a gulp of soda, continued:

"She died. . . . Just died, pure and simple. The younger Mrs. said it was a heart-attach. Just an hour before she's fine as anything, and then, there she was on the couch, dead. Mrs. Camilla came out of the house to get me. . . ." The man stopped again, words getting out with some difficulty, indicating grief - his first real emotion besides fear. "Called me 'Frank,' she did, by my name like that. Unusual: I didn't think she remembered my name, for all I worked for her husband for 2 years. I knew right away something wasn't right. I knew even before, 'cause the old Mrs. took so long. She normally didn't do that: leave me waiting on the street, like I am not a person but a furniture to just sit there while she does what she wants. The old Mrs. wasn't that way. She saw people as people. . . . So, when she asked me to wait a little, I thought she's coming right back out, and then the whole hour and a half go by and she ain't coming, I thought something's not right. She's been upset all day. . . . But I never thought, not for a second, she was close to death!"

Frank took another sip. Jack watched him silently, his lips pursed, his eyes focused and filled with emotion Martin thought he understood.

Martin, himself, felt suddenly drained. The rush of throwing yourself into a case, the adrenaline that sustained him for two days, has run out. The feeling of hopelessness and failure was settling in. He hated when the cases ended like this: with no live person to find and bring home. What initially drew him to this particular FBI Unit, what drew all of them here, was the possibility, the hope of finding people alive, of restoring them to their loved ones, of, in short, arriving in time to save the day.

He's been here long enough now to know that it didn't always happen. In fact, it happened but rarely. Often - more often than any of them liked - what they found at last was a dead body. Or a dead end. That the "happy endings" didn't always happen even for those they found in time to save or bring home. Still, every time a case closed with finding someone dead, Martin felt it afresh as a personal injury and a very private defeat. He knew for a fact that Samantha felt the same way: she told him as much during one of their more unguarded conversations. He also suspected that the rest of the team took those outcomes just as personally. And it didn't matter that usually, by the time the case was brought to them, the people they were looking for were already dead. It still hurt like a half-healed wound cut open and aggravated anew.

Frank coughed, took out a large handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. Sam silently pushed another soda can toward the man. It probably wasn't good for him - all that sugar - but he took it eagerly and no one gave it a thought.

Frank continued after a short and sad silence: "She set me down, the younger Mrs., in that fancy room, and she talked to me real nice. She told me a lot of things I can't even remember or repeat, but she was real persuasive. And I helped her. . . . I took the money, sure, but why wouldn't I if she just handed it to me? It's not like there was a crime. And she promised to keep me on with the family. You know how hard it is to find a good position at my age? I mean, what does it matter if the funeral's today or a week after? It can't possibly matter to the old lady. She's dead. . . ."

Another pause stretched out and suddenly Martin felt an uncontrollable irritation.

"Where's the body, Mr. Argello!"

Frank looked up, tears in his eyes, whether of grief or self-pity, they couldn't tell. "I think you should talk to Mrs. Stevens-Newberg."

xxxxxxx

"It's where? Oh my God!" Vivian held the phone away from her face and looked at it in slight shock.

Danny next to her shivered in the January wind. He didn't ask, knowing well she'd tell him momentarily, but the chill he felt penetrating all the way to his heart had little to do with the cold outside. Image of Allie came unbidden, and Danny was suddenly filled with a helpless sort of rage at the injustice and sadness of it all. From Vivan's response to Martin's phone call - and, to be honest, long before that - Danny knew that Mrs. Stevens-Newberg was dead. He knew it unequivocally, as surely as he knew that her death, whether natural or not, would leave a trail of broken hearts, lives, and hopes.

Vivan sighed, pressing a button on her cell, and turned to face him. "Let's go get that warrant. For the Stevens-Newberg residence." She mounted the stairs of the courthouse, Danny slow in her wake, both of them moving as if weighed down by an unbearable burden.

xxxxxxx

He couldn't believe it was only yesterday that he stood on this elegant doorstep, annoyed and fretting the case. It seemed a lifetime ago. Danny was half-afraid of Allie opening the door, as she did the day before. He couldn't face her now, not with the terrible news and no real answers. Let it be later. Let it be with something comforting: some miraculous wisdom he would be able to summon up and offer her at some future time.

The door was opened by a maid. Not the one that they've spoken to previously, but an unknown, middle-aged woman - probably the second one who didn't work on Saturday.

She offered to show them into the Breakfast room, and Danny suppressed a twinge of a smile, remembering Allie's comments. The smile faded immediately as Vivian produced the warrant and asked to be taken to the kitchen instead.

The maid, flustered and clearly at a loss, handed them back the warrant without even glancing at it.

"You will wait for Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, please?" She half asked, half told the agents.

They stood there in the imposing hall, a strange and subdued group of two special agents, three forensics specialists, and a corner. A group that, in its general gravity, seemed to be already at a funeral.

The house was quiet. A lot quieter than the day before, which stood to reason. It was Monday. Mr. Stevens-Newberg, they knew, despite everything, went to the office. Considering the state of his business, he probably couldn't afford not to. Allie was at school, Danny guessed, and Blake - probably at another fitting. Except for the maid who showed them in, there didn't seem to be any other servants about. Knowing what they did now, Danny and Viv wouldn't have been surprised if the cook was offered a week off, as well.

She came downstairs slowly, some of her arrogance still intact, though one could tell she was not the same irritated majesty she appeared to be yesterday. Again, there was no surprise on Danny and Vivian's part when they noted that Mrs. Stevens-Newberg was being accompanied by Leonard Morgan, attorney at law.

It was Mr. Morgan who spoke - a fact that made Danny smile again. He imagined it was a habit with the lawyer: to anticipate any and all hasty and ill-advised remarks by his clients.

"First, I want it on record that this prosecution of a respectable and esteemed family will not go unnoticed or unreported."

"Yes, we know, Mr. Morgan, we know," Vivan's calm and reasonable voice cut the attorney's habitual protests short. "Before you launch any complaints, though, I think you should take a careful look at this warrant."

She handed the paper to him, her eyes on Mrs. Stevens-Newberg. Two women regarded each other steadily, each a strong and formidable presence in her own right. Danny sighed impatiently. The house was oppressing him, its elegance suddenly cumbersome and insulting. He wanted for this to be over. He wanted a better outcome. He wanted for this unshakably-selfish woman in her impeccably tailored pale yellow suit to snap out of whatever self-righteous kick she was on and face her responsibilities. The real responsibilities of motherhood and family, and not the ones she elevated into such unbearable importance.

"I will be calling the judge immediately. This is an outrage! To grant a warrant based on some dubious story of a highly doubtful character. . . ."

"Yeah, you do that," Danny interrupted the lawyer mid-outburst and headed for the kitchen, the rest of the team on his hills. "You call the judge, you call the Governor, you call the United Nations, if you think that might be productive. In the meantime, we have a job to do. Kitchen's that way, right?" He addressed the maid who stood frozen by the front door during the entire exchange. She nodded slightly, not without shooting a frightened glance at her employer.

The kitchen was actually a series of three open-ended rooms: one housing several stoves and various preparation surfaces, the other serving as pantry, and the third occupied mostly by two large refrigerators.

It was for these refrigerators that Danny and Viv headed.

One of them, a smaller-sized actual fridge, was a fairly standard affair. The other was larger, titanium, and had been fastened with a lock attached to a chain. Danny nodded to one of the forensics people, who produced a pair of metal cutters from a kit. A click, a metal clang of the lock hitting the floor, and they all stood there, unsure of who should open the door and not really wanting to.

Vivian was the first to summon up the courage. She pulled the handle and a large freezer stood wide open, with the light going on automatically inside.

There were no gasps or any audible sounds in the room, though the silence that followed was deafening.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**Apologies for being late with the update. I blame it on the Season finale and the shock it left me in. Sigh.**

**Thank you all for the wonderful, as always, reviews. Rozzy07: "sock the reader on the jaw" is always a good way to get attention. LOL. Thank you!**

**And I promise that Allie will be back. It's only fair that she, and the readers, get some closure.**

xxxxx

Danny set on the marble step, watching the coroner and the driver load the old lady's body into the van.

He felt numb. Finding her like that - in that fridge, stiff, brittle, seemingly less than human size, wrapped in an incongruous piece of filmy white cloth - felt unreal. Danny contemplated the nature of hope, that most stubborn and human trait. He saw it in the faces of the parents whose kids had disappeared years ago, and who kept haunting the FBI building for the glimmers of a chances that something new and encouraging might have surfaced. He saw it in spouses, children, siblings, and friends of countless people who had gone missing. Even if they knew better, even if the odds against those missing people ever being found alive were so overwhelming they didn't leave reasonable room for anything but despair and acceptance. But what had hope to do with reason or calculated odds? It was a commodity made of spirit and desire. It was the very antithesis of reason. And may be, because of that, it persisted where reason perished and the odds meant nothing.

Danny, despite everything that happened to him in his less-than-wonderful life, despite the nature and the reality of his job, was a hopeful person. He entered every fresh investigation with the kind of a stubborn belief that the person will be found alive, and, if not well, then at least well-enough to survive. He had a need to believe in that. Jack may have been onto something when he once suggested that this job was some sort of a cathartic therapy for Danny: a way to not so much relive his parents' tragic deaths, but rather to correct that outcome, to change the past by changing the future.

The coroner's van started and moved toward the corner of the narrow street, taking the broken hope with it.

Vivian came out of the house. Danny felt rather than saw her standing behind him on the step above. She didn't say anything - there was nothing to say. Not for the first time he wished they didn't get to know the missing person quite so well in the course of their investigation. At the beginning it was always just a face on a photograph, blown up and pinned to a white board. Just features with a case number to go with them. And then the humanity behind them would begin to take shape. Not always likable, never flawless, and seldom all good, but inevitably and uniquely alive. Some of them they grew to care more for, some less, but as the life of a person would take shape, the driving need to find them would strengthen. No longer a series on numbers and a sum of physical characteristics, but someone, whom, after all sorts of records and personal information, they felt as if they knew firsthand.

Danny was aware that this kind of knowledge was often inaccurate - intimacy twice removed, based on papers and someone else's accounts. Still, once they ate, slept, and breathed someone's life for any period of time, that life became tangible, almost familiar. Several times in his career, in especially drawn-out or emotional cases, Danny has found himself holding conversations with missing persons, a discourse of sorts, as if they were friends or acquaintances - something he never confided to anyone for fear of being thought strange or mentally unbalanced. He was neither, in fact - just a man with an often tragic job, who found a unique coping mechanism. Those imaginary conversations helped him, brought him closer to the missing, and, sometimes because of it, closer to finding them. It didn't often happen, and it didn't always work, but when it did, the outcome of the case, whether good or bad, would be particularly poignant for Danny.

He didn't mention it to anyone this time, either, but he had been talking to Mrs. Stevens-Newberg all through last night. Of nothing in particular, of life and its disappointments, of Allie and the real, positive influence Harriette had had on the girl. He had spoken to her as one would speak to a ghost: not acknowledging its presence exactly, but addressing it nonetheless. And all the time, even though subconsciously he knew that the lady was probably dead, the tiny, rudimentary hope never left.

"You shouldn't sit on the steps, Danny. It's cold." Vivian rubbed her hands together in a futile effort to warm them up. It _was _cold, he realized with a start. One of those unbearably chilly New York January days that make everything seem made of glass: still, brittle, translucent, and about to shutter.

"What now?" Officially, their investigation was over. They had found the missing person. Still, the questions lingered and the singular unsatisfactory feeling engendered by such a discovery would not let them close the book on this one.

"Now we wait." Vivian gave up on trying to be warm and turned back to the house. "I just spoke to Jack. He is sending an officer to stand guard here. Not that we think anyone will make a run for it, but still. Until the autopsy results, it should be impressed upon all involved that they should stay put. Later, per our request, the madam is going to come over to the headquarters - accompanied by the lawyer, I was informed - to answer all our questions."

"Sorry I left you alone with the Dragon Lady. I just couldn't deal with her for a moment." Danny smiled a sad, sheepish smile.

"It's all right. She is understandably subdued. She even managed to remember my name. I left her discussing her options and all sorts of possible scenarios with her lawyer. . . . We should wait for the cop and head back. Paperwork won't file itself, and, frankly, this house depresses me even more now than it did originally."

Danny nodded his ascend. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he didn't want to wait for Allie. He still had no idea of what to say to her. What can possibly be said to a grieving person - especially one young and hit fresh with a first tragedy - that wouldn't sound like a platitude? What possible words, so pale and meaningless - as Danny knew from his own experience - could lift the grief and lighten the pain? He couldn't face her yet, but he felt that, for whatever reason, this girl, who took up firm residence in his heart so quickly and unexpectedly, needed to be faced. He wouldn't have it any other way.

xxxxx

"You don't understand."

Jack sighed and closed his eyes. His headache, that never quite left, was back with reinforcements that took shape of prickling sparks of light somewhere behind his eyelids. He blinked slowly, deliberately, willing the prickling and the pain to subside. He was getting literally sick and tired of that phrase. Why did most people he questioned inevitably opened their answering statements declaring that he wouldn't understand. The sad truth was, he understood only too well.

It was late on Monday. A depressing evening capping a sadder day, and all Jack wanted was to go home, curl up on his narrow couch, turn off the lights, and wait for the headache to go away. He didn't want to ask this sad, suddenly disoriented woman any questions, especially those he already thought he knew the answers to. But it was his job, and it didn't matter how distasteful the process was to him at times, this needed to be finished.

"Why don't you explain it to me, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg." He managed to not sound contentious or bitter.

"You have no idea about the kind of pressure our position as a family imposes on us! You can have no knowledge of what it's like having to maintain the impossible standards set at easier times by much less complicated people! . . ." She pressed her long fingers to her temples, and the gesture, implying a headache, annoyed Jack. His own pain in full force, he didn't sympathize with the woman's theatrical gestures and her Greek Tragedy stance.

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, I fail to see how this is relevant. . . ."

"Of course, you fail to see! Why would you! But even you know that we are _somebody_! Do you know how closely we are watched? Our every move, our every decision, every word! Watched by all those people who claim to be our friends and social equals, but who cannot wait for us to make a false step, so they can take us down! . . . You would have no concept of what it took for Harrison to maintain the company at his parents' standards. Times and ways have changed, but the same results are expected. God forbid he makes a tiny, inconsequential mistake! . . . And then it got around, because these things inevitably do! I can't even blame the Livingstons, because they are in as much of a bind with this entire fraud investigation thing as we are. Why do you think Muffle was so eager to throw that abominably tasteless wedding for Tinsley? _After _the end of the Social Season, no less!"

Jack shifted in his chair, trying to piece together Camilla's frantic ranting into some sort of logic: "Are you saying these weddings are the means to saving face?"

Mrs. Stevens-Newberg regarded him with distaste, her carefully glossed lips pursed into a narrow line.

"I wouldn't put it into so base a wording, but yes. . . . Do you know how many snickering whispers we heard every time we were out for a benefit or a gala? How many stares, how many condescending smiles? This wedding . . . It was going to put a stop to that! It was going to show us holding our heads high. And the people who were invited - truly important, influential people! - would have solidified our position, cleared once and for all. . . . It was going to fix everything!"

The thick, shaking emotion in her voice was the first real feeling Camilla had exhibited, and Jack suddenly felt something almost like compassion for her. She wasn't, after all, a lioness she first appeared; not the cold, irritating and irritated lady of the manor; not the icy, tailored symbol of wealth and class, but a rather flustered, frightened, not terribly bright or imaginative outside of her comfort zone cornered fox in a well-toned, well-dressed, perfectly kept woman's body.

"But, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, your husband's company is being investigated. I am sure you are aware that he, along with several of his officers, are about to be indicted. How a wedding could have possibly fixed that?"

"Oh, I knew you would take a simplistic view! Don't you realize how things are done? Don't you know _anything_? You sound just like Harriette!" She clenched and unclenched her fists, making half-moon dents on her palms with her long, manicured nails. "A right person . . . a word, judiciously uttered to the right guest or two, and any problem can be made to go away. . . . And she simply refused to understand! _She _never did business that way. _She _never had to resort. . . . The woman was impossible, and, though I wouldn't wish to speak ill of the dead, I simply can't avoid saying this. She pestered Harrison all day, first about the company and then about the wedding, and then she came to our place. To chastise us, like children! The truth is, she never understood Harrison, and she never understood me. Nor liked me very much, but I have learned to live with that. . . . I tried, Agent Malone, I really did. More so in the earlier years of my marriage, I would admit, but still, no one can say I didn't do my duty! And for her to accuse me of all sorts of things. . . . And that really ridiculous request to alter the guest list! As if such a thing could be done at the last moment!"

"Mrs. Stevens-Newberg, what happened Saturday night?"

"You know what happened: she had a heart-attack. There she was, ranting and berating me in that annoyingly reasonable tone of her's, and the next thing I knew, she was clutching her chest and sliding down on the floor."

"Was that after your eldest daughter left the room or during?"

"Oh, after. Blake had calls to make, she said her good-byes and her apologies and left. Blake is wonderful, really, but she does overdo the guilt thing sometimes. She was actually trying to convince me to invite that unnecessary friend of Harriette's to the wedding, if you can believe it! . . . Oh, what does it all matter now! She left, and that's when Harriette really let it rip! She usually felt more restrain around the children, but one-on-one she never made any bones about how she felt! And, oh, how she felt! Really, some of the language she used would hardly be suitable for our circles! I was very glad indeed that Blake was no longer in the room."

Jack raised his eyebrows in disbelief: "You mean, she cursed?"

"No, of course not," Camilla waved her hand dismissively. "It was the way she was saying things, implying things. . . . You wouldn't understand," the lady resorted to her old standby. Jack let it go.

"Why didn't you call an ambulance?"

Camilla shot an uncomfortable glance at her attorney, who, for a change, remained remarkably quiet.

"My first impulse was to call 911, of course. Or, rather, I was about to call Blake and ask her to do it. And then I lifted Harriette up onto the sofa, and she was suddenly so heavy, and so, well, dead. . . . And I started thinking about our situation, and how the wedding would have to be postponed, and how much time, energy, plotting, preparations, careful time management and sheer determination it took to get all these people to be there this Saturday. . . . And now it would all have had to be pushed to some indefinite day, and some of the key people would never again be able to commit to the same date. . . . Not to mention that, due to the tricky company situation, we _needed_ this to happen now! And, in short, she was already dead, and what would that matter? Harrison was still in Paris. The entire family was coming for the wedding anyway. It would have made much more sense to keep this quiet for a short while, and then have the funeral right after the wedding. Sunday, perhaps. James and Blake could have postponed their honeymoon easily enough. It was the wedding that was important."

Jack shook his head in disbelief: "How were you planning to announce the death to your family? Just casually slip it into a post-reception conversation? 'Congratulations to the bride and groom, and, by the way, don't rush for the airport just yet, 'cause your grandmother is chilling in the fridge at home?'"

"Agent Malone, do you think we can refrain from sarcasm?" Leonard Morgan has finally made his presence known. "There's no call for this, and Mrs. Stevens-Newberg is here as a courtesy. She has committed no crime, and we have yet to confirm if even a misdemeanor can be argued here, however doubtful and ill-advised her actions may have seemed."

"I appreciate Mrs. Stevens-Newberg's _courtesy_ - and stand by on the misdemeanor or any other charges - but knowing how mindful she is of her and her family's reputation, I am sure she wouldn't mind clearing this up as quickly and as thoroughly as possible."

"Is that a threat?" The lawyer fixed his owlish gaze on Jack.

"Oh, for goodness sakes. . . ." The woman's patience, never too formidable, was wearing thin, "what is there to discuss? Yes, I had an inspiration. It seemed simple enough. Blake, I knew, was upstairs, most likely on the phone. She seldom pays attention to who comes and goes around the house. Allie was in her room, all the way down the east hall, and, as usually, in her own world. The house, as you doubtless remember, is large enough for the people unfamiliar with it to get lost in. The cook doesn't work weekends, the maid has left half an hour before. I knew I could tell people Harriette's left, and no one would doubt it. I had to include the chauffeur, though, since he was waiting right outside, and, anyway, I needed help carrying Harriette downstairs. . . . I called him in, I explained the situation, and he was very understanding. Not in the least because I gave him a week's vacation, $5,000 in advance, plus a promise of $5,000 more after the wedding and the opportunity for the future employment with our family. . . . I found a suitable fabric among Blake's samples in the Blue room, and Frank supplied the chain and the lock: men tend to have such things in their car trunks. The lock was his idea. I was perfectly content to just call the cook and give her the week off. No one opens that larger fridge besides her, it's the smaller one that we use. But Frank pointed out that we should, perhaps, err on the side of caution. He really was most helpful. . . ." She trailed off, as if realizing that the cool efficiency of her recitation was off-putting.

"I just wanted what was best for the family. . . . And Harriette, I am convinced - as much as she disagreed with me on other things - would have understood that."

Jack sighed. "I am glad you can convince yourself of that. I still don't get, though, how you were going to explain your mother-in-law's absence at the wedding."

"Oh, that would have been easy. Blake already knew we had a disagreement. So did Harrison. . . . Not that I would have kept this a secret from Harrison, come to think of it, had the things gone the way they should have. I am positive he would have understood."

"He would have understood his mother's body in the fridge?"

"Well, when you put it like that. . . ."

"How would _you _put it?"

Camilla clenched her fists again: "I would have put it to him the way it was always put to him: family and it's best interest! Considering his situation, I don't think Harrison would have minded the funeral taking place a week later! . . . And as to the rest, the conflict was already established, and I was simply going to say that Harriette and I had a disagreement so strong, she felt compelled to go someplace and clear her head. When the wedding day arrived, I would have arranged for a telegram, saying that Harriette was wishing the couple all the best, but was unable to attend due to slight health situation. It would have been seen as unfortunate, but not really alarming or out of character. And it would have explained the subsequent 'death.' I was going to leave the keys for Frank when we all went to the Hamptons for the wedding. He was going to come over to the empty house, take Harriette out, and arrange her on the sofa, where we would have found her the next day, after coming home. She would have been well-preserved, and it would have been assumed that she came over and had a heart-attack. Which she did, only a week earlier! Frank was going to corroborate that he picked her up at a station and drove her over to the house a day before."

"Nice plan. Detailed. Flawed, but I've got to give you credit for audacity. The one thing you didn't count on, I guess, was the persistence of your youngest daughter."

Camilla sighed: "Allie is a teenager, and a contentious one at that. She absolutely doesn't listen, and her obsession with her grandmother is unfathomable to me."

Jack was about to make a reply when his phone rang. It was Danny.

"_Jack, I just got the autopsy report."_ Danny's voice came somber and filled with some barely controlled emotion.

"So soon?"

"_She is, after all, an FOG. They put a rush on it. It's only a preliminary, but it's conclusive enough for the coroner to make a definite pronouncement. Are you sitting down? . . . She died of _exposure_, Jack!" _Jack lowered his phone away from his ear, looking at it as if this could make him comprehend what he had just heard.

"She didn't have a heart-attach?" He had to get up and walk to a corner of the room and whisper, so as not to be heard by the other two occupants.

"_She did. But it wasn't fatal. . . . Jack, she froze to death!"_


	12. Chapter 12

**The Lady Vanishes**

_A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing._

**Disclaimer:** Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.

**This is, finally, the last chapter of what turned out to be a longer and a sadder story then I originally intended. I couldn't help it: sometimes it leads you. **

**I want to say another heartfelt thank you to all who responded and told me how they felt about this fic. I am grateful and moved by all of your kindness and attention.**

xxxxxx

They were a somber group around the table. If Monday morning brought hope, Tuesday morning was bereft of it completely. They all hated that feeling when the case was over and the results were of the worst possible kind, and all that remained were the paperwork - un-tempered by satisfaction and a sense of completion - and the debris of people's lives to sort through.

Jack swallowed the dregs of what was probably his fourth cup of coffee. He knew it wasn't doing his perpetual headache any good, but he was past caring.

"The DA's office is about to file preliminary charges." No one said anything and he continued after a short pause: "Manslaughter. They are still on the fence about the voluntary/involuntary specifics. I hear they are going to take her into custody today."

Vivian shrugged: "She'll probably be out on bail in no time. With the entire Peabody Morgan marching in to deliver it."

"Would the husband post bail, though?" Danny was slightly perplexed.

"Of course he would," Vivian looked at him questioningly.

"No, Viv, there is no 'of course' about it. I mean: my wife kills my mother, I will at least pause before I bail her out!" Danny couldn't keep incredulity out of his voice.

"He'll post bail," Jack rubbed his exhausted eyes, "whatever his feelings are in the matter, he is too obsessed with appearances. Besides, the mother is already dead, and the wife is very much alive and not of the easily-dismissed kind."

"Are you seriously suggesting they'll be able to preserve their marriage past this?"

"I have no idea what they will or won't be able to do. About anything. I'm just fairly certain he'll post bail and sit through the trial, presenting, as always, the united family front. That is, if there is a trial. She may just plead to it and make a deal, depending on what all the charges will amount to. And also, if Stevens-Newberg himself isn't standing trial for fraud at the time."

"Would the Governor intercede on her behalf, do you think?"

Jack shook his head. "I'd be very surprised. For starters, there's precious little he can do. It's up to the District Attorney's office, and if these guys decide to throw a book at the madam. . . . Besides, the Governor may have played golf with Stevens-Newberg, but it was his father that was the Governor's personal friend, and, consequently, the lady. I doubt the Governor is in the mood to help out her killer."

Another depressed silence ensued. Martin broke it, pushing aside the plate with his half-eaten bagel. "What about Frank?"

Jack shrugged again: "DA is charging him as an accessory. Who knows if it'll survive summary judgment, though. Frank's finally wizened up and hired a new lawyer. He is not moving to California any time soon, _that_ I can tell you."

Martin sighed: "Poor Mrs. Argello. It's tougher for people like her: living in their own world of denial and half-truths, thinking they are protected, and then something like this comes crushing down, and they have no idea how to cope."

"She'll probably invent another delusion to hide behind. Or buy some more 'Precious Moments.' It's not her I feel bad about. It's the kids." Danny was fiddling with his now empty coffee cup, his eyes bloodshot and his heart heavy. "Even Blake. I mean, she is a flaky, but she is not a bad person. Certainly nowhere near as hardened as her mother or as cowardly as her father. And we haven't met the son, but I can't imagine the shock of all of this on a 16-year-old kid coming home from a boarding school for his sister's wedding. . . ."

"And Allie?" Vivian squeezed Danny's fidgeting hand in a compassionate gesture.

"Allie. Yes. . . . I still haven't talked to her. I should have probably gone back yesterday, or at least called. Or someone should have. . . . I don't know what to say to her."

The sad silence was back. It was interrupted by Sam, who entered the area with a purposeful gate and a worried face.

"Guys, Mr. Stevens-Newberg just called. Allie's missing!"

"How?" "What?" "When?" "What do you mean, missing?" They all spoke at once.

"Apparently, she left last night. Her bed wasn't slept in."

Danny clenched his fists: "And he is just calling _now_!"

Sam shook her head: "They didn't know. As you can imagine, it was not a calm and peaceful household yesterday. What with Camilla wailing, and her husband shocked out of his apathy, and Blake running between the two of them trying to restore some semblance of sanity, and the press beating down their doors, and the phones ringing off the hook, and the maid going crazy, Allie has probably slipped out under the radar, by the back door, without being noticed. They all thought she just shut herself up in her room, and when Blake went to wake her up for school this morning, she wasn't there, her bed untouched. She didn't take her school bag or her cell phone, so they can't even call her."

Danny felt bile rising in his throat: "Are you telling me no one, at any point yesterday, has checked in with her? No one has thought it necessary to - I don't know - comfort the girl? No one has had any idea that she'd be upset!"

"Danny, they may not have known how."

Vivan's words rang true, if hallow. After all, Danny told himself, he didn't know how, either. He has already admitted that he didn't have the strength to talk to the girl yesterday. Still - he bit his lip in real, unadulterated rage - they were her family! Someone in that confounded household should have found the time and the courage to at least check on Allie.

"She didn't show up at school, right? We know that for a fact?" Danny turned to Sam again.

"No, that was the first place the father called. She isn't there. And before you ask, she is not at the house, either. They ransacked it top to bottom."

"Have they looked in the fridge?" Jack caught himself almost immediately, but the remark was out and hung in the air like a visible black balloon.

Sam gasped, but no one else made a sound. They just looked at him. The way they have been looking at him lately, with ever more increasing frequency. As if he was a tricky time bomb about to go off.

"Jack, that wasn't funny," it was Vivan who finally spoke.

"Sorry. No, it wasn't. It's this headache I can't seem to get rid of. It impairs my judgment. . . . I'm sorry."

They let out their collective breaths.

Danny, still looking at Jack, said: "I think I may know where she is."

Vivian turned to him and smiled: "I think I may, too."

"Let's go, Viv, I'll drive." Danny was out of the room before Vivian could reply.

xxxx

She was sitting in the same position she took that first day he met her: in a chair, her knees up to her chin, hands gripping the armrests, probably in an attempt to hold on to something solid.

The room was dark. January mornings, devoid of early light, called for the supplemental illumination, but Danny understood why she didn't want to turn on any lamps. The doorman on duty - the same green-clad "Kibler Elf" of two days ago - told them that the last-night's guy on duty saw her come in. He was apologetic, but since she _is _the granddaughter, and since the FBI _didn't_ say no one could go in. . . . Danny and Viv waved him off and sped toward the elevator.

She didn't turn her head when they came in, but they were acknowledged by slightly distressed Truman, who ran up to them and barked plaintively. Danny picked up the dog and petted his bewildered ears.

"He's been freaking out," Allie said, her eyes still fixed on some distant object, her voice detached, as if speaking to no one in particular.

"At home, all late Sunday and yesterday morning, he kept running like mad around the place and skipping down to the kitchen. . . . I thought he was just hungry. . . . He probably could smell grammy. Or maybe I'm just being morbid. . . ."

"Allie," Vivan put a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. "Have you slept at all?"

"Slept?" She turned to face the agents, her eyes unfocused, genuine surprise in them. "I don't remember. . . ."

Danny longed to ask if the girl has eaten anything, but didn't.

Vivian nodded her head in resolution. "You know what? I am going to make some tea. Do you know if there's tea in the kitchen?"

"Probably. . . ." Allie was trying to concentrate visibly, "The real kind, too. Grammy hated those fruity concoctions."

Vivan made her way to the kitchen, leaving Danny alone with the girl. He looked about for another chair, and finally set on the low, comfortable sofa facing Allie, still holding on to the somewhat subdued Yorkie for comfort and support.

"It's all my fault." She said it quietly, almost inaudibly, and Danny had to strain his ears to make sure he heard right.

"Allie, no! In no way what happened was your fault! It was a terrible tragedy and a horrific accident, and, however culpable others may be, you are not!"

Allie shook her head vehemently, tears, that she tried to hide before, very evident in her eyes. "Yes, I am! Do you know what I did when all the shouting reached my room Saturday night? I put my headphones on! I didn't want to hear them fight, I didn't want to know! I heard mom raising her voice, and I even heard grammy. . . . Must have been when Blake was leaving the room - the doors got flung open. . . . And I didn't want to go there and ask what was going on, I didn't want mom to yell at me, I was trying to avoid confrontation. . . . Just like dad! . . . I am a coward!"

"Allie, listen to me," Danny set the dog down on the floor and took a step toward the girl in the chair, "you are the furthest from a coward I know! So you tried to avoid confrontation? Who wouldn't? You are a kid, caught in an adult disagreement, and it's natural, normal, and wise to avoid being stuck in the middle as much as possible! You couldn't have imagined what had happened!"

"Yes, but I could have prevented it! If I listened, if I went to that room, if I saw grammy have a heart attack. . . ."

"Allie, take it from me, you cannot drive yourself insane by all the possible 'ifs.' It's not the way to deal, and your grandmother would have been the first to tell you that. . . ."

Allie shook her head: "No. . . . It's nice of you to say that, but grammy never shirked her responsibilities, and she _never _avoided unpleasantness, no matter how much she wanted to! And I. . . ."

"And you didn't do anything wrong! It wasn't your unpleasantness to avoid or engage in, and it certainly wasn't your responsibility. . . . Believe me, I know all about regret, and hindsight, and the constant questioning. . . . In fact, I am doing it right now. Talk about shirking responsibility: I should have come and saw you yesterday. I should have talked to you, found out how you were holding up. . . ."

"It's all right. You have a job. I am not a relative or even a friend. You didn't have to." Her voice was lifeless again, as if all emotion was drained from it.

Danny sighed, sitting back down on the sofa. "But you _are _a friend. And, for whatever reason, I do feel responsible for you."

Truman, possibly unnerved by the silence after all the frantic talking, waddled back to Danny and settled by his leg.

Allie followed the dog with her eyes, a ghost of a smile on her face.

"One good thing, though: no wedding this weekend. They can feed the poor horse now."

Danny smiled back, his smile a mirror image of Allie's: van, barely perceptible, and infinitely sad.

"Is the wedding off altogether, or are they rescheduling it?" Vivian asked the question, carrying a tray with 3 cups and a plate with some toast. She spread a kitchen towel on a low coffee table and busied herself with arranging the things on it. "I toasted some bread for you, Allie. I am sure you didn't think of eating. When was the last time?"

Allie wrinkled her forehead in concentration. "I'm not sure. Sometime yesterday morning."

Not for the first time Danny silently cursed the Stevens-Newbergs _en masse_ for not thinking about the girl, and, while at it, himself for failing to check on her yesterday.

Allie grabbed a tea cup Vivian handed her, and looked at a piece of toast as if not sure what to do with it.

"The wedding's postponed indefinitely," she answered Vivian's earlier question. "That is, they'll do it sometime, but probably without all the circus involved. Blake wouldn't want to now. Most of it was mother's idea and unfailing enthusiasm. And Jim only went along, because he thought that that was what Blake wanted. . . ." Her voice trailed off as she put aside the plate with toast.

"What's gonna happen to Hank and me?"

Danny and Vivian exchanged glances.

"I don't know, Allie," Danny decided to stick with honesty. "We are not sure what will happen with your parents yet. . . . You may remain where you are. Live at the house, go to school, be under Blake's care. . . ."

"If Blake would want it," was the girl's doubtful reply. "Not that I am sure she wouldn't. She is all about duty, too. But I don't want her to take this on if she doesn't want to."

Vivan shook her head: "Most likely, it won't be necessary, not for the whole time, anyway. These trials. . . . The judicial system takes time. Your mother may well be home before your father's trial is . . . ," she searched for an innocuous word, "resolved. Or your mother may not go to prison at all. She may get a suspended sentence. . . . In other words, you may well have a parent living with you at all times. . . ."

"Great. I have options! Aren't I lucky! Pick a criminal, any criminal. . . ." Allie stirred her tea in the cup, even though she didn't add any sugar.

Danny shifted in his seat, his eyes on the girl intently. "You may not believe me, but I know how helpless you feel right now." He stopped for fear of sounding pat and patronizing.

Allie shrugged. "I wonder: could Hank and I get emancipated, maybe? We have a second cousin who did that once. Years ago. Emily Blake, one of those Connecticut Blakes mom always talks about. She was 17, though, so, I suppose it didn't matter much. . . . Her mother died and her dad was squandering her inheritance. Apparently, there was a big uproar in the family. Emily went to court and got herself declared 'legal adult.' Interesting term, 'legal adult.' I suppose my parents are 'illegal adults' now that they broke the laws. . . . Anyway, after all the courts and being proclaimed an adult, she's gone to live with her nanny! I always found that funny. But now I can see her point. Too bad we haven't got a nanny like that. That is, we had them, but none lasted, and then they gotten me into the 92nd Street Y Nursery School. Very prestigious, that one. Guaranteed me entrance into Nightingale Bamford. That's where I am now. Very academic, very artistic, very hard to get into. . . . All girls, all prep, all around best. . . . Mom would have been happier, actually, with me out of the house somewhere in Massachusetts, like Hank, but when I got into Nightingale, she just couldn't resist the prestige and the bragging rights. So, here I stay in Manhattan, working on a diploma that virtually guarantees you unimpeded passage to Harward or Sarah Lawrence! And from there, your path is obviously clear straight to Heaven! . . . That is, if your parent's don't commit too much fraud or, you know, matricide."

And finally, for the first time, Allie started to cry. Slowly at first, with just barely audible sobs, and then uncontrollably, her entire body shaking, tea cup precariously tipped, threatening to fall out of her limp hand.

Vivian approached from behind and wrapped her arms around the girl. Danny set there, feeling more helpless than ever. It has become easy to forget that Allie was still a child. Normally, she presented a front that was wiser than an average 14-year-old's. It was somehow disconcerting to see her as a kid again: a frightened, bewildered, bereft kid. He wanted to hug her, to tell her a comforting lie that everything will be all right, that things will sort themselves out, and that in time she will forget all about this. He couldn't. He took the all but fallen tea cup instead, and then held on to her hand, letting her cry it out.

She fell asleep on the sofa, wrapped in her grandmother's shawl, Truman snoring quietly at her feet.

Danny set in a chair, too wiped to move, listening to Vivian make quiet phone calls in the hallway: one to the Stevens-Newbergs, one to Jack, and one home, to talk to Reggie. Danny suspected that the last one was a mother reflex, heightened by taking care of Allie.

The storm has passed. He didn't feel helpless anymore, just protective. He could tell her now, talk to her, ease her pain. Or just be there, so she didn't feel so alone.

She opened her eyes suddenly, as if she hadn't slept at all. "What am I going to do?"

Somehow Danny knew it wasn't the same question of an hour ago, but more of a general kind.

"You are going to survive." Danny got up and set on the couch, at Allie's feet, by the still sleeping Yorkie. "You are going to grow up and be everything your grandmother new you would be. You are going to thrive. You are going to cherish your brother and sister, support your father, and love your mother."

"Why?" Allie asked as if she truly wanted to know.

"Because she is your mother. Because that's what we do: love our parents even if, sometimes, they are unlovable. Or frail. Or full of flaws. . . . You are going to live your life to the fullest, and you are going to live it as a happy person. That's the tribute you need to pay to your grandmother. That's the only duty you owe her. Because that's how she lived. That is her legacy."

Later, in the elevator, on their way down to the car, Danny handed Allie a card, after writing something on the back of it.

"This is my home and my cell numbers. You will call me whenever you need. Don't hesitate, don't be afraid to impose. I want you to call." He smiled at her reassuringly, "I know I am not the Governor, but I may just be able to help with the everyday stuff."

Vivian chuckled quietly and Allie smiled back.

Danny continued: "And, if you don't mind, I will call once a week, just to see how you are. No need to wait for disasters to check on friends."

They tucked her into the front seat - a small teenager in a loose coat and a colorful scarf, hugging a fluffy dog.

"She is going to be OK." Vivian said it quietly to Danny before entering the car herself.

He settled behind the wheel, stealing a glance at the girl. Her eyes were closed, exhaustion and worry of the past several days overtaking her once more. "She is going to be OK," Vivian's voice reverberated through Danny's head. He hoped Viv was right. He had faith.

End.


End file.
